Redmond Diaries -the fourth year
by katherine-with-a-k
Summary: Final year... last chance
1. Chapter XXXI

**Hello dear readers. Are some of you feeling tender right now? I know that I am. Jonathan Crombie had such a rare and vibrant spirit and his loss hurts my heart. **

**N****ow we come to the finale. I was so excited about all the love (reciprocated and everything) that I had to write about, forgetting it only really happens at the end of the book. I knew this final part would prove tricky and so have decided not to follow the story chapter for chapter anymore. There will still be ten chapters (actually eleven, as Anne of the Island has forty-one) but as I am in loose-end tying mode I need to be a little looser with the structure. Needless to say Anne's getting published, lilies v violets, news of Gilbert's engagement, Roy's proposal, and the whole typhoid misery will all feature. **

**I am sad there is only one chapter to play with when Anne and Gilbert finally reunite, so I have decided to treat myself (and you hopefully) and write a short sequel to the Diaries in the form of the love letters those two wrote to each other in Anne of Windy Willows. I hope it will be joy, joy and more joy! But until then what have the other characters been up to...  
**

**REDMOND DIARIES -the fourth year**

**Chapter XXXI**

_**The Rose Notebook**_

_**30th July, Mount Holly Bolingbroke, 1886**_

It's finally done. Two months later than anticipated. I had forgotten how tragically indecisive I could be. When I am with Jo I feel as if I could happily elope to some remote Mission in deepest darkest Saskatoon and never set foot in Mount Holly again. That is until I return to this magnificent pile with its hot and cold running water -and hot and cold running servants. Cora is decidedly cold, and didn't manage more than a thin little smile when I told her my wonderful news.

Since I last _flitted off_ (Papa's words not mine) Mother decided to fashion my favourite into a lady's maid. I actually miss the cheap little apron Cora used to wear_._ Now she is decked out in the starchiest, whitest get up -it almost hurts my eyes! She used to light up the room like a little candle (those aren't my words either, they're Anne's.) But now she cracks and glares with a fearsomely efficient manner. I suppose one has to wear some sort of armour when waiting on Mother from morning till night.

Oh, my Ochre self is never far away. But what she said about Jo! She hasn't even met him yet -and aren't I glad about that. Not only because I would loathe for Jo to hear Mother's opinion, but because_ he_ is my last resort! If the goodness that is Jonas Blake is not enough to convince the Bolingbroke Gordons he is worthy of their daughter then not even angels will persuade them.

Jo's been such a honey about the whole thing, and wanted to go to Mount Holly immediately after I accepted him. Though it would be more accurate to say that it was _he_ who accepted _me._ And once he meets the Gordons he'll may very well change his mind, which is why the news had to come from my little lips alone. Of course, that lead to the problem of exactly _when_ to announce my engagement. I never was able to decide from one hour to the next. Not in the morning because Papa is always so liverish after Mother attacks the piano. Not in the afternoon because Mother makes a point of stalking the halls with her pot potpourri after Papa returns from the Gentleman's Club. I tried my hand at being Anne-ish and ventured I rather enjoyed the smell of a good cigar. But Papa looked almost as alarmed as Mother did!

They just will_ not _be pleased. And when I saw that I suddenly knew -the way I know my nose will turn traitor on me and go down the Byrney route- that my parents' permission, though nice to have, was not in the least way essential. To think there was a time I never knew what that was. I never wanted for anything -well, I was never allowed to. Then came Jo. Then I found out _all _about want. And what I wanted was for him to see beyond my faults and dare to marry me anyway. Now that I have that miracle in my mitts everything else seems small potatoes.

We had an indecent heap of them go cold last night. Don't I wish I had thought to tell them during the last course rather than the first. Because I had to sit at the table watching everything congeal while Papa snorted and Mother sulked. _And_ it was venison! We are lucky to be able to get more than a leg of lamb at Patty's Place -even that will seem extravagant when I marry. But I shall be content to feast on a dinner of herbs, at least they shouldn't prove hard to cook.

Papa huffed in usual locomotive style when I finally got the words out. "So ho, little Filly, you mean to take a husband after all!"

"_Mean_ to take a husband?" Mother sniffed, "She could have had _any_ man in Bolingbroke. Or Kingsport for that matter."

Papa went even redder than usual and said he _had_ wondered, what with my interest in mathematics, proclivity for cigars, and hunkering down in a rustic cottage with country girls, whether perhaps I meant to,"-here he went positively purple- "make a _professional scholar_."

I assume by 'professional' he means like Aunt Jean and 'Aunty' Libby. Though I never did get the chance to inquire because Mother began striking her spoon into her soup as though she hoped to uproot the blue willow from the Royal Worcester dinner service.

"Yes Papa," I told him, "we wish to marry next summer. If you agree, of course."

If it wasn't for the ding ding ding of that silver spoon I might have chosen my words more carefully. Instead I made the calamitous mistake of putting Mother in her sarcastic mood.

"_If_ we agree? Why ever would we _not_ agree? _Of course_ we agree! Of course I want to see my _only_ daughter, my _baby_, my Bolingbroke _beauty_ marrying some nobody. One who hasn't even the _decency_ to introduce himself to us first, let alone ask our _permission._ Do you _truly_ think he believes that you are capable of stitching and stirring and mothering twenty brats. Mark me, he'll be assuming Philippa Gordon comes with a pretty penny!"

I had about lost my appetite for venison then, even though Cook really had outdone herself. But to have to have to sit there as _my_ Jo was talked about like that, I would rather endure my own cooking -soon I will have no choice. Papa attempted to rescue me by wading in on my behalf (though I wonder if Mother _had_ been agreeable whether _he_ would have disapproved) and declared how much he wanted to meet the man who had won my fickle affections.

"He has won more than that," I said. "I love him. What is more _he_ loves me. And even if you don't agree we are to be married in June."

"So decisive, little Filly," Papa chuffed. "Better and better."

I know very well that he likes the idea of my marrying Jo because it reflects so well upon _him_ -Grandpapa Gordon being a man of the cloth, himself. Excuse my Ochre-ishness but as much as I love my father he really does remind me of all the things I detest about men. So condescending, so above it all, so _nothing_ like my Jo. Jo couldn't be condescending to an ant, and would never place himself above something when he could leap right in.

I shall write to my darling now and tell him the worst. And the best. That it is done at last and he is expected on Saturday on the 4 o'clock train to Bolingbroke. I suppose I should feel romantic and giddy and say I shan't sleep until then. But my bed at Mount Holly has a goose-down mattress that is twelve inches thick and I mean to make the most of it while I can!

**… … …**

_**L'Hermitage Gstaad, Switzerland ~lost in a tempest of thoughts unkind!  
**_

_**August 6th, 1886**_

_I defy you stars!_

Uncle Jolliffe has just had stern words with me! Stern words, he calls them. _Stern._ A dagger to the heart could not have hurt me more. All because of a 'growing concern' (despicable phrase, as though a mare was in foal) about my attachment to a certain Miss Shirley.

Ignorant, narrow minded snobs! That _their_ blood should run through _my_ veins. Well Uncle Joliffe's doesn't, thank Heaven ~being Aunt Orlanda's third husband~ but she and Mother have cut me to the core. And_ Aline!_ A very viper in the nest. Showing Mother that harmless sketch Anne wrote for a bakeware conglomerate. How is it Mother never thought to inquire why _she_ had been reading that sort periodical in the first place? Surely that is more shameful than doing what one can to ensure one's dreams are kept within one's grasp. When I think of all time times Aline has swooned over destitute heroes like Gabriel Oak and Heathcliff. But if her _brother_ should chance fall in love with a penniless orphan girl? That is not to be borne!

I shall take a leaf from those great men and show a fortitude that would inspire Hardy himself; a determination that would fire Miss Bronte to write about me! Royal Gardner will not be dissuaded. My family's small minded tactics only serve to magnify my feelings. They think spiriting me away from Lake Geneva to some hermitage will be enough to break the bonds of love? Fools! Anne and I are not so easily unmade. Though her mean circumstances and my position seem too great a barrier, I shall pride myself in overcoming their prejudice.

Say what they will, Anne has been impeccably brought up and no one could fault her in that. Her _joie de vivre_ would have certainly expired were she raised in true _deshabille_ fashion. I am certain that Avondale must be every bit as genteel as Summerside whatever Mother may infer. In fact I will insist upon summering there next year. None of this gadding about like the leaf on the breeze, like the ship in a tempest. Not everything of beauty and worth resides on the Continent. Oh, how easily I can picture Anne here among the edelweiss and mountain streams. See the joy on her darling countenance as we take _le Grand Tour_. Yet for all the wonders I would lay at her feet I shall always ensure that we keep a modest abode on Prince Edward. Perhaps not in the villages. But Charlottetown I understand has some very fine residences _and_ a tailor of some renown.

Oh Anne! Such wondrous candour! Forthright simplicity! Mesmeric eyes and adorable nose! Your letters to me are as paper caresses that anoint my hands. Your sweet words like a fervent embrace that touches my soul. Never have I known such a woman. My Anne, my sweet, my all.

Paper caresses and wordy embraces, small mindedness and magnified feelings...

I believe I have the beginnings of a new poem!

**… … …**

**L.Y.H.R. Kingsport, September 5th  
**

_My dear Mrs Drury,_

_How goes it in the blessed land of Motherhood? Is it all you were promised, and more importantly have you picked up your violin yet? You simply must get hold of Bruckner's 7th. An undoubted masterwork. Though perhaps you should delay until little sticky fingers has been sent off to boarding school. Exactly how old would Cavendish have to be before he could attend? How old were you, Phoebs? I was as old as eleven! A late starter -though one could say I have done my all to catch up._

_One such as Hartley for instance. Do you know I think I actually prefer him when he ignores me. Perhaps you should make it known in London that Miss Stuart's engagement ring is returned to her third finger. It isn't of course, it lies where it always has, on a chain nestled close to my broken heart. Andrew's heart is so broken he has had to extend his walking tour of the Rockies all the way to Wyoming! He seems to think the further away he goes the more likely I am to go through with this ridiculous farce. And as he won't release me from our engagement and Papa will cut me off if I renege, we are simply unable to find a way through this impasse. Do you suppose that is why he has taken to clambering up hillsides? Well, I have worked through many a difficult passage myself. Oh Phoebe, do procure the Bruckner. The allegro moderato is a sensation that hasn't been equalled since my last visit to Dr Darby!_

_Mr Blythe scoffs at my going every week. "Like employing someone to brush your teeth", he said -this was after several corn liquors. Did you know the September Moon is also known as the Corn Moon, Mrs Drury? Well Mr Blythe does, he told me all about it. The waxing and waning, the planting and reaping. He is a veritable Almanac! There was the most glorious Harvest Ball at Redmond last evening, welcoming Seniors for their final year. Everyone was encouraged to dress up farmer-style. Well I thought seeing the likes of MacDonalds and Gardners decked out in straw hats and dungarees a most compelling sight. But Mr Blythe was unimpressed. There was none of the saint about him then. He downed three Bourbon whiskeys in quick succession and asked if I wouldn't mind leaving again. I agreed readily enough, one never knows what adventure might unfold with him on my arm. Sadly, it was not to be last night. Instead we sat out by Dawson Lawrence bridge and proceeded to get dangerously frank._

_By now you'll have ascertained that I did everything in my power to get a kiss from the man. If you could see his lips -in fact I believe we should make a visit to a photographer, then you will know what I have resisted all these months. We were lying back on the damp lawns of the south bank and he began telling me about some young girl (Rosie? Ruby?) who had gone consumptive and died. Well nothing so tragic has even come within a mile of me but I did want to make him feel better. So I leaned on my elbow -not unaware of how my bosom would be pressed together to direst effect- drew myself close, and he said to me,_

"_Oh I want to, don't think that I don't. But my feelings aren't the ones to consult on the matter." _

_Then he reached over, plucked out my engagement ring from inside the collar of my gown (I had it made especially, Phoebs, red and white gingham!) and held it up so that great big Corn moon shone right through the diamond.  
_

_I said, "Mr Blythe, why do I sense that you have refused more girls than you have enjoyed."_

_And he said, "Because it's true, Miss Stuart. How could I refuse you now unless I'd had a lot of practice."_

_Oh, Phoebe, isn't he killing? He hasn't had anyone in his hometown, you know. Not a one. A strapping farm-boy like him! Apparently, the first girl he kissed lived in Alberta of all places. Then there were the usual high school flirtations, flings in N.B. during visits to his cousins, and of course the doomed pash for that clever little redhead I think I mentioned once or twice. (Who, incidentally, is putting it about that she is soon to become Mrs Royal Gardner. Well they all think that, don't they, Phoebs? Until they meet his mother.)_

_I didn't care to reveal my own exploits, obviously. But in that moment Mr Blythe's opinion mattered very little. Perhaps it was due to the glow of that infernal moon, or the name of the bridge that glowed under it, but my thoughts were bizarrely overtaken by memories of Andrew. Of how romantic a thing it might have seemed to someone (possibly as inebriated at St Gilbert, possibly not) if I attempted to convey the infuriating way he refuses to give me up or let me go. It has that sonata sentimentality, does it not, to think of Andrew Dawson like that? _

_If only I loved the man as much as I love Beethoven. Ah well, my dear, as Mr Blythe likes to say- 'So wags the world'._

_Kisses, Christine_

**… … …**

***For those of you who didn't know Bourbon is made out of corn -weird!**

**Vale Jonathan, you made our world shine brighter. If you like you can leave a line about your favourite Gilbert memory instead of a review :o)  
**


	2. Chapter XXXII

**Good day Anne-ites, what a rambuctiousness of reviews! I wasn't sure when I sent it out whether it was much of a start for a new story, so your generous words mean much to me. I loved reading your Gilberty thoughts. It's heartening to share a common memory -you really are a gorgeous bunch. Speaking of gorgeous, here are the girls from Patty's Place with their own thoughts about that hokey Harvest Ball...**

**Chapter XXXII**

_**September 5th, Patty's Place, Kingsport**_

_**Priss Report #170  
**_

Somehow I have wound up in the dim, cold dining room when I should be in a soft warm bed. With a soft warm Stella.

I could feel her eyes on me all night as though a line attached us together. Had that line existed there would now be a tangle as comprehensive as the one inside me. She tells me I cannot forgive her for advising me to ignore Mr Rawley's letters. Perhaps she's right. It would explain why I spent more time being danced about the room than sitting by her side. Stella would have it that I am the only person she wants to dance with. But dancing in our bedroom is not the same as dancing at a Ball. Especially a Harvest Ball. I envisaged us laughing over it all evening. Instead she had a face like Gilbert Blythe.

I miss the days he when was always at Patty's Place; the gift he had for splitting our sides -_and_ our kindling. After managing to unpack everything to Jimsie's satisfaction when we first arrived at Patty's Place I was more than ready to flop in front of the fire. Only to find Phil attempting to kindle it with logs that were far too big, far too wet, and smelled _all_ wrong. Gilbert knew where to find apple logs, and the scent of them was home.

I hadn't realised how I yearned for the Island until last summer. I yearn for it still. Especially as I sit in this cramped, dank dining room. Phil really has taken it over. She calls it her 'study' but it looks more like a dressing room to me. There are two looking glasses _and_ a wardrobe! I don't have to wonder who she got to shift that colossus in here. I never properly appreciated how much Gil used to do for us. Somehow it doesn't occur to me to ask Roy to lend a hand with the wood or the furniture arrangement. Perhaps I will. It might be wise to make this dining room into my own room. Stella and I have been sharing for two years, not only a room or a desk but each other. And there are moments I would like to claim a little bit for myself.

Every time a letter would arrive I would feel her eyes on me waiting to see what I would do. At first I read them in front of her. I would say it was because I had every right to do as I wished. But I also know that I savoured it. I am so used to looking sidelong at someone I can never hope to have, Stella's jealousy was intoxicating.

Burn them, she would say to me, pointing to the fire -that was in the apple log days. But I couldn't. Instead I began to leave them unopened and pressed into a hat box. For months that news went unheard, unread. Father and Laureline were mindful never to mention it, yet I am not half so vexed with them. I seem bent on making this Stella's fault as if somehow she knew that Nate's wife died of puerperal fever and the baby not long after.

If I felt Stella's eyes on me tonight I felt two hundred of them as I walked into town last May. Whispering, staring, so that I began to fear all Grafton knew he wrote to me. It took Laureline a whole day to mention it- but I have written enough of this already. Why do I always want to? Nate Rawley now has no wife, no child, and a hundred acre farm. But he doesn't write to me anymore. The last letter I have from him no more than a note. When I returned to Patty's Place I didn't dare seek it out until Phil, Anne and Jimsie were tucked up in their beds. We climbed into bed as well. Stella huddled by my side clutching her pillow as she always does, while she peered at the page in my hand. I noticed his writing on the envelope, how ragged it looked. Why hadn't I known that this letter was different? Why didn't I question why no other came after? I don't know. I'm afraid perhaps I am as cold hearted and unforgiving as Nathaniel Rawley said I am.

But I'm_ not._ I am sick to have to sit here in this cold damp room when I want to be in a warm bed with a warm body. I only wanted to dance tonight; to look at a man and see he was pleased with me instead of bitter and hateful. To show affection for someone without having to hide.

Coming to bed? I asked her. No _Otto of Roses_ smeared on my face, no nightgown buttoned to my neck. And I know she knows what that means.

I have to write a letter, she told me.

_Have_ to? I said, as I watched her settle down at the desk. I am fairly sure Miss Mallory won't mind waiting.

Miss Mallory minds everything, she said.

I hated her in that moment. For putting a ghost before me, when I gave up a real live man. I decided I would rather sleep in the cinders than in our bedroom. But I am so cold and tired I regret that now. I am beginning to regret a lot of things.

**… … …**

**_Saturday, 5th September ~Patty's Place Kingsport, 1886_**

Dear Diary,

An auspicious beginning for you, little book! Though I don't wait for them anymore. Even_ tragical_ things can be beautiful ~at least my eleven year old self used to think so. Was it the Island I missed so much or the girl I used to be? The freckled little sprite who wore buttercups and wild roses in her Sunday best hat, and went about naming the world as though she were Eve.

There is to be no new name for you, dear Diary. Not because I've lost the knack but because diary is already a _perfeckly perfeck_ word. Now let me begin by telling you that this is my last year at Patty's Place. And my last year at Redmond. Will it also be my last year as Anne Shirley? Oh, let me think no more of names. Let me tell you all about tonight!

There was the most absurd Ball at Redmond. Well, more of a jamboree ~at least Kingsport's idea of one. Any soul from Avonlea would have been rightfully bewildered. Hay bales under the chandeliers! Mrs Lynde would have had a conniption if we dragged such a thing into _our_ hall. Gingham ball gowns! Diana and Josie would have laughed so hard they would have never been able to dance. Gilbert didn't seem to mind, however. No doubt lost in those _violet_ eyes. The two of them barely arrived before they disappeared again. A country dance must be too common a thing for Miss Stuart.

Oh, I want to like her, Diary, I do! But I can't help feeling that behind her perfect ivory countenance that girl is smirking at me. Royal knows her slightly. She has an older brother who attended the same school as he did. She plays the cello well enough ~though Phil did say she seemed more intent on expressing Christine than expressing Vivaldi. Stella wondered if it was only in playing that she was able to show her true self. While Priss's eyes were locked firmly on the concert master; a dashing violinist by the name of Marcus Ell. 'Ell for Love,' Jo chuckled.

If I was in the orchestra I would certainly fall in love with him ~and not with terse Seniors who seem to have lost their sense of humour. I was going to knit him a scarf for his birthday. Now I doubt he would get the joke. Did I dream that evening we spent after Diana's wedding? I had hoped we might rekindle something of our friendship when we returned to Redmond. But I see I have been replaced. I miss him, Diary. But I am used to that. I have many rooms inside me filled with little aches for things that are lost to me. Gilbert Blythe is merely one more.

Roy is a darling. Though I now understand why Phil got so pouty about having to find yet another vase to put all her flowers in. Roy has sent me a bouquet every morning and evening since term started. Roses, carnations, asters, hyacinths, lilacs, tulips, chrysanthemums ~even Priss is complaining that it's getting to be as bad as cushions! I don't mind the lack of places to keep a book and a cup of tea, so much as I mind how the flowers must feel. To be bought in glad hope of being put on display, only to find yourself jostling next to fuchsias and heliotropes. At night I imagine I hear them all, preening like Josie or prancing like Ruby or brooding like somebody else.

Do you know, Diary, brooding, melancholy men aren't half interesting as they are in books. Fortunately Roy's brooding is the sort where he is really hoping I will ask him all about it. Which is not really brooding but a kind of sulking. No, that is unfair. Roy doesn't sulk he just thinks very deeply and likes to share his musings. Though I do wish he might have spared me tonight. The Ball was so gloriously silly. When I noticed his eyes take on that faraway look as we strolled home together I knew I was supposed to ask him all about it. But I didn't. I felt too light-hearted, too joyous, too hopeful he might kiss more than the air around my hat. So Roy decided to mention it for me.

'I suppose you are wondering why I walk with the weight of the world this evening. Why, when I have all a man could yearn for, I am lost to the storm in my heart?'

'Let me cheer you, then,' I said, hopefully. 'Why don't you come in and sit by the fire with the china dogs and excellent cats, and I'll tell you all about a real country dance.'

I felt mean spirited then because he told me it stung even more to know that all I ever thought about was how to make him happy. Yet I wasn't thinking that at all.

'I vowed to never say a word, but you are too intuitive to be deceived, Anne. There is nothing for it but to tell you my grievous news.'

Such a chill went through me, having plenty of experience with the grievous side of life. I had to disguise my laughter as a sort of coughing when he announced his mother did not look on our connection with a kind eye.

'Anne don't cry! Her words mean nothing!' he vowed.

'Dear, Royal,' I managed to say, 'being disapproved of is mere grist to the mill for a girl like me.'

Such a look came over his face, this lovely light I hadn't seen for the longest time. I really wished he _would_ tell me what was on his mind and in his heart. No doubt tomorrow he will say it to me with flowers.

**… … …**

**_September 5th, Patty's Place, Kingsport -920 days without you  
_**

Dear Mags,

Here we have it, the beginning of the end. One year of hoping, one year of happiness, and one year to say our goodbyes. How I wish it was September already. I can already picture myself promising to keep in touch and then falling apart in the train station's cloak room. I suspect I have forgotten how to cry, I doubt I would recognise the sound of a sob if it came from my own throat. Was there much satisfaction in seeing me fall on my knees at your graveside, Mags? I wonder if Priscilla would ever do such a thing. I'm sure that Anne would. That little goose cries when her withered flowers have to be thrown away.

"I always worry for cut flowers", she says. "I feel certain that the spirits of wildflowers become as stars in the sky. But what becomes of hothouse flowers. To have never known the touch of the wind or the song of a bird. I imagine the happiest moments for those beauties are the ones they spend out in the world before they are delivered."

Oh Anne!

Would Phil cry? I could certainly see her get very red in the nose. Her Byrney nose, she says, as though saying it will make it less true. I could be wrong but I am sure it is already changed a little since we first met.

Does anything change for you, Mags? Are stars indeed the souls of flowers? Does it smell like a Madam Lillian's where you are, or is it different for each angel? I hope my Heaven will smell of the darkroom. Of quinone and sulphate, and the big iron key we used to lock the door from the inside. The lavender water you sprinkled on your shirts. The wisteria walk where we saw each other for the last time.

Not that I knew that, which is why now I always expect goodbyes. I know very well that Priss is preparing to say it. She doesn't need to moon over boys to make me understand. I can feel it in the way her hand lingers on mine as if she was saying, I shall never forget this. I am becoming a sweet remembrance of days gone by. She even believes she still loves Mr Rawley. I never imagined Priscilla Grant the sort who thinks that hate and love are a mere hair's breadth apart. I say hate is simply good honest hate, without a drop of affection in it-

I can hear her on the stairs... She has gone into Anne's room.

**Later...**

I have just had a heart to heart with Anne, who came into my room with drowsy eyes and flossy hair to tell me Priss wanted to sleep with her tonight. Anne is tall enough, but Priss! That beanpole took over her entire bed. So she slipped into Priss's and I into mine and we sent out our whispers over the rag rug between us.

"You have something so rare with Priss," Anne said, her voice woolly for want of sleep. "If Diana shared my ambitions I would never have wanted another."

"Oh yes you would," I told her. "Sooner or later you'd long to be somebody's bride and somebody's mama. There's no escaping goodbyes, Anne."

"Too true," she said through a very thick yawn. "You just learn to carry them with you."

**… … …**

***** Puerperal fever is also known as childbed fever. It is caused by a post partum infection and was a common cause of death in childbirth. Anne probably had it when she had Shirley.

**Ok, so next up Gilbert's 25th (suddenly he's 25!) and Anne is writing again...  
**


	3. Chapter XXXIII

**Thank you for your reviews, I realise the opening chapters have been on the glum side, that's what happens when you love people who don't love you back the way you want them to. Anyway I was feeling nostalgic for happier days (ie: Anne-ish) when a certain young man began pulling at my ear in a firm and determined fashion...**

**CHAPTER XXXIII**

_**October 19th, 1886, Mayberry Avenue, Kingsort, N.S.  
**_

_**Weather:**_ thick cloud cover but no rain as yet

**Time: **11:57pm

**Ate: **Porridge with stewed pears and cream; two lamb chops, baked potato and creamed corn; devilled kidneys and bacon, mashed swede, creamed corn, and cold apple pie for afters. Also sundry apples, hot biscuits and one slice cold ham.

Good evening Diary,

Have taken Gilbert Blythe in for the night. We met on the Redmond campus as I was escorting Miss Selvidge's cousin to the Lady Yardley Halls of Residence. He was lying on his back on the south quad -which has multiple signs declaring students must keep off the grass, I don't know how he missed them.

I was unable to ignore Blythe, however, as he was singing (badly) a sentimental tune that my Pandora is especially fond of. Was forced to pretend I had no idea who he was until Miss Lewis was safely returned indoors. I then attempted to gain his attention. A difficult endeavour when I was unable to raise my voice or step onto the lawns, and only met with success upon emitting the long low whistle we once used to signal that Philips was heading back to the school house. On hearing it he hastened over, hissing, "Where is he! Did we make it back in time?" before embracing me for an overly long period during which three co-eds took especial notice (we were at least off the grass.) The phrase 'Good old Charlie Sloane' was then repeated six times before I managed to coax him to my dwelling.

He began telling me, without any encouragement, that he had recently attended a birthday celebration hosted by the tenants of "Patty's Place". Apparently there had been a large bowl of punch which that shameless Miss Gordon had the making of, and got the measurements spectacularly wrong. This from a supposed mathematics expert.

Thereafter an incident followed (Blythe's voice became highly irregular at this point) which as far as I could ascertain involved nothing more dramatic than he and Anne fingering the notes of a song at the piano. Having failed to make headway with the piece (I note with satisfaction that Anne Shirley has still to grasp the basics in feminine arts. Pandora can play 'Fur Elise') they were assisted by Miss Stuart. Who, as well as having a figure to rival my Pandora, is a qualified musician.

If I remember rightly it was Mr Gardner who offered his services then with a heartfelt rendition of 'In the dear dead days beyond recall'. The two of them providing an impromptu concert of an hour's duration whilst Miss Shirley and Mr Blythe looked on, drank too much punch, and I can only presume were highly entertained by the whole spectacle. I am half sorry to have missed it.

Blythe is currently snoring upon my bed after a shocking exhibition which included:

1) Bellowing parlour songs down the streets of Kingsport

2) Disrobing on the stairs, beginning with his boots and socks on the second floor, jacket, shirt and tie on the third, and ending (only after my insistence) with his trouser bottoms on the fourth. Concerning which I duly noted:

2a) he has yet to break unseemly habit of sleeping in underwear

2b) he still has less hair upon his person than myself

3) Regurgitating into my waste paper basket

4) Lamenting Anne Shirley's engagement to Royal Gardner.

I foolishly debated this news with him being under the impression that Mr Gardner had yet to formally propose. Mother insists he has not spoken and Mother would know. My room mate, Biddlesford, however, would insist that Gardner proposed to Anne last month at the Rossetti Retrospective, after which the whole gallery broke into spontaneous applause. Unfortunately this induced Blythe to heave into Biddlesford's waste paper basket. (Was further shocked when Biddlesford insisted _I_ should be the one to clean it up!) I relocated both receptacles into the hallway but refused to do more.

Am of the strongest opinion that since parting company Blythe has fallen into unsavoury habits. Attempted to discover source of his moral decline. However intoxication prevented sensible discussion, which proceeded as follows and demonstrates nonsensical state of mind.

C.S. "This won't do Blythe. What in heaven's name has come over you of late?"

G.B. "I love her, Charlie. I love her!"

C.S. "Who man, be more specific."

G.B. "Anne! Anne! It's always been Anne!"

C.S. "Why on earth do you persist on such a course when she most certainly does not return the sentiment?"

G.B. "I know that. She's marrying that Prince and there's nothing I can do and I love her!"

Ad nauseam.

His confusion is certainly alarming. Mr Gardner's name may be Royal but he is not royalty. He does, however, hark from a prestigious Kingsport family and while I am much justified in harbouring bitter feelings against Anne for refusing me without sensible reason, I am not so unchristian as to wish Gilbert Blythe upon her instead.

His snoring quickly chafed upon Biddlesford's tiresome sensitivities. (The latest being that he cannot have anyone in the room between 7 and 7:15 am, which is when I like to take my morning motions!) The fellow proceeded to stomp out declaring he would take the basement room Vickers vacated two days ago, before stepping into both wastepaper baskets -and breaking mine!

Consequently am considering requesting Blythe move back with me. The fellow cannot manage without my guidance. Have decided I shall model the manner befitting a son of the Island and a Redmond scholar. In return he can tutor me in:

a) Applied and pure mathematics,

b) Ancient and modern literature,

c) Ancient and modern languages

d) Ancient and modern history.

(He can also introduce me to comely Miss Stuart and entertain Pandora's tiresome chaperone.)

Respectfully, C. Sloane

**… … …**

_**20th October, Sharpe's Lane, Kingsport  
**_

Well things have come to a pretty pass if I am moving back with Charlie Sloane. I'm even eating ham. He woke me this morning with a thick slice that had been fried in lard till it was sizzling and crisp, and I wolfed it down and asked for more. There wasn't any, Charlie had given me his portion. He has measured it out to the ounce, and calculated he can make it last till the end of November. I wish he'd been given the task of making the punch last night. A tipsy Anne leaning hard on my shoulder, mumbling, Look here, Gil, can't we go back to being good friends. I think you're awfully smart and being smart is better than being pretty, is a memory I do not need.

But I was in need of Charlie, and he soon filled me up with a batch of biscuits and thick black coffee to dunk them in. I haven't eaten so much since Diana's wedding. I didn't mention that to Charlie as he hadn't been invited. But I did say I'd be happy to take him up on his offer. The place I'm in at the moment is even worse than Glenaeon Street. And while he may be an odd egg, old Charlie Sloane, inside him lurks a surprisingly golden heart.

You're to stop these shameful capers! he barked at me. I mightn't expect better of you but your folks certainly do! I thought you meant to be a doctor! I suppose you only said that to impress Anne Shirley.

He kept on at me -clearly he savoured the opportunity- but I stopped listening. I was recalling that day on the Green Gables porch steps when Anne and I first talked about the dreams we had for ourselves. She wanted to add to people's happiness, give them joy where was none before. I wanted to give something too, to find a way to protect others from ignorance and harm.

I remembered how hopeful I used to be, how I truly believed that each piece of knowledge I might add to the world could build a path for all those who came after. I could feel that excitement, that drive, rush through me again. Turns out it wasn't excitement but ham. But the thought stayed with me. It lodged in my chest and filled that almighty hole I've been living with for more than a year. I don't know why it was that I suddenly felt ready. But I know now, know it as if I was holding it in my hands, whatever else I might lose the Cooper Prize is mine.

**… … …**

**1st November ~Patty's Place **

Dearest Diary,

Why does the world of Octobers become a world of Novembers? It's like watching a merry blaze burn down into ash. At least November birthdays are easier to buy for. I could name a dozen things that Roy would love, whereas Gilbert's present ~I think I spent more time thinking about what I could give him than I did my last essay.

This whole year will be measured with words. Only eight weeks into the new term and already I am filled to bursting with everyone else's opinions and wisdom. My head like my own little closet, and me filing through it hour after hour seeking Johnson's theory or Blackwell's treatise. Who said what about who, on what page, about which battle, and in which declension. Everything sharp, exacting, and unforgiving.

That soft place, Diary, where is it now? There are more people than me who must yearn for it, who refuse to give up their tender-hearted selves. We may not hear the Rock people anymore but we can still visit them, can't we? Go back to those places inside us and nestle into their October-ish spirit. Even in November.

There is another place I sometimes visit. A battered trunk that sits at the end of my bed and is filled with sacred feeling. There are days when that box seems to throb and ache and I can't bear to go near it. Other times it calls out to me and I rush to its side, anxious to rediscover the beloved things inside. Memories in the shape of little crocheted dishcloths from Marilla, too beautiful and fine to be plunged into greasy water ~though I shan't tell her that. Nor Diana that I will never manage to make up the delicate doilies from the patterns she sent me. There is a broken snow-globe that is Davy, a worn leather glove that is Matthew. An old green scarf that is home. Letters from Mother and Father, from Green Gables and Orchard Slope. Lengthy epistles from Paul who never mentions Nora anymore, Miss Lavendar's with her unfailing nudges about Gilbert. Gilbert's last of any meaning ~from as far back as 1884~ Miss Stacey's, Phil's, Priss's, Stella's, and of course Roy's. I almost need another trunk for his perfect words.

I made a foolish joke the other evening. We had returned from another recital ~this one was Handel I think~ and I said to Roy that when I am dead and gone he could publish his letters to great success. It was some time before I could calm him again, being deeply wounded by the mere thought of my funeral.

'I would like to think I had the strength to attend, Anne, but if I don't, will you grant your forgiveness to me now? I could not live knowing you were looking down and at me in sorrow. Every drop of rain would be as tears upon my head.'

I told him there was nothing to forgive and took his hand in mine. I was wishing he wanted to take even more, though I did receive a luminous smile.

'You cannot die, Anne,' he said. 'You are already an angel.'

When we returned to Patty's Place he asked for a pen and paper in order to jot down his line about the tears in the rain, and then wondered which specific letter it was that had moved me most. I am embarrassed to admit that I couldn't think of even _one_ and hoped he would be satisfied with, 'All, all!' Luckily Diary, he was.

But there are other words inside my old trunk than those. There are _mine_. Old stories, old dreams that lived so strongly inside me I had to kill some off in order to make space for more. They used to pour from me once. I couldn't look at a brook or see a branch stir without hearing their histories being whispered on the wind. How I laboured over Averil. Weighed and worried over every word. And it showed, oh it showed! Because I had been imagining what I would write if I was Mrs Morgan, or Margaret Burton, or the great Canadian authoress. I never really believed that anyone would care what plain Anne Shirley would write.

I was lying in a perfect drift of white paper this afternoon, as though Christmas had come to my little blue room. Devouring my stories like hot soup on a cold day. Stella came in while I was making snow angels on my rag-rug and huddled close beside me. Had she done this a month ago, a week ago, I might have shooed her away and swept up those pages in shame. I don't know why I felt differently, I suppose October glowed too strong inside me because instead I began to read them out to her, just like in Story Club days. Why do I call them Story Club days as though those days have to end? To see Stella's little face as she listened to my nonsense, it meant more to be than all the gushing comments Dr Kent scrawls at the end of my essays.

She is so very Novemberish right now. Priss too. I am not wholly certain what has undone them. Phil has a notion, but then so do I. That my darling Miss Maynard loves Priss the way Gilbert once loved me. He never will let me make him smile again, at least not with his eyes. But I made Stella smile ~Diary, I made her laugh! The sound was so rare a thing that Priss and Jimsie popped their heads round the door to see what had happened. Jimsie began tutting away about the terrible mess on my floor. But I wasn't listening, I was remembering. That golden day when Gil and I sat out on the kitchen steps and talked about our dreams. He wanted to add to the sum of knowledge in the world. 'A man has got to fight for something', he said, 'it's the only way he can square what he owes to all those who have come before him.'

Well, I mean to take up the fight too, with the pen not the sword, of course. There are people, I know there are, who need magic in their lives, who believe in Faery and know how to speak it. And if I do nothing else with my fine B.A. feathers I can at least fly to that country and bring back news just for them.

**… … …**

***The song Royal sings is actually called Love's Old Sweet Song, but is better known as Just a Song at Twilight. I decided to have Charlie name it by it's opening line for two reasons- **

**1) It will make Anne and Gilbert feel super sentimental and awkward.**

**2) It might remind any readers that Christine sings that song to Gilbert in Anne of Ingleside.**

**That list was a tip o' the hat to Charlie. Yes he was the one to sort Gilbert out. When you realise a fool makes more sense than you do it's time to get yourself together.  
**

**Thank you again for all your encouragement, your favouriting, your messaging, and your time :o) **

**Next up the Gardner's call! :o/ But before they arrive a thin little envelope comes for Anne...**


	4. Chapter XXXIV

**Ok, so when I said I would be following the last eleven chapters more loosely I am about to go rogue and actually mess with the timeline. I realise the Gardners are due to visit some time in November, and then Anne goes home for Christmas. But instead I am taking Anne home for Christmas now, and have the Gardners and news of Anne's getting published come in January. It makes no difference to the story, I just wanted Anne to spend some time with Mrs Blythe's cats so her later observation will feel more resonant. Ok? Ok...**

**CHAPTER XXXIV**

_** Dec. 20 The Palisades, Avonlea  
**_

_Someone's_ in the family way. Diana Wright was trotting to the Blythe's outhouse every twenty minutes. There's either a bun in her oven or she has the worst case of Honeymoonitis. Though she looked _far_ too self-satisfied for that to be the cause_._ I wondered how long it might be before the Barry's began knitting up booties. Gertie reckoned on a winter confinement because no one, not even a dullard like Fred Wright, could last _three years _without sampling the produce. Whereas I said two summers at least. Because Fred would need at six months to figure out what to do, and Diana would need six before she would give in and let him!

If I was the nasty minded sort I might have come to a similar conclusion about Anne. She had that big eyed pale face _all_ afternoon, and barely managed to baste more than _two _sheets for the Hospice. Does she _want_ those poor invalids to go without at Christmas? How soon the high and mighty forget their squalid origins. I just don't understand it. First plain Jane Andrews has some tycoon sniffing round her, and now the Rollings Reliable redhead has one too! Well, what do they say but love is blind.

Not that Anne would know what love was. Fancy giving up Gilbert Blythe to marry for money, after flirting with him shamelessly for years! She did look gratifyingly uncomfortable in the Blythe's parlour this afternoon. Apparently the Green Gables folk_ insisted_ Anne come in their stead -what with Rachel coming down with bronchitis and Marilla getting over it. I could scarcely believe she had the nerve to attend! But then why shouldn't Anne be _made_ to do her share? People make too many concessions for her odd little ways.

Mrs Blythe was far too obliging by half. You'd think it would be _me_ she would be making an extra effort with when I am Gilbert's oldest, most_ loyal_ friend. If it wasn't for that gold-digging ingrate poor Gil would be here right now renewing past acquaintance, instead of _killing_ himself with his studies. Anne Shirley has ruined Christmas for everyone. If I was Sarah Blythe I would have slammed the door in her face! But oh no, it was- _Anne could you get Pippin out of the wool basket, Anne could you help Miss Parson's thread her needle again, Anne could you run into Gil's room and fetch the desk lamp for Mrs Silas to see by, Anne would you make sure Ruthie doesn't sit on Tuppence?_

It was probably the sight of Anne's infantile stitch-work that forced Mrs Blythe to keep her occupied with less taxing tasks. Now if it was a _Quilting Bee_ instead of the Ladies Aid you can be sure Green Gables would have found excuses to keep Anne at home. The Sloanes are right, she'll _never_ be fit for homemaking. Not that it matters, of course. No doubt Anne will have _servants_ to do it all for her. She'll set up house in Kingsport and we shall never see her again. Poor deluded Diana, after Anne has finished wasting all Marilla's money on a pointless Bachelor's degree she would have been expecting her bosom friend to return to Avonlea for good. She would have been _counting_ on it. As Diana isn't showing yet -well her waist isn't any thicker than it generally is- I'd say little Junior will be here by July. And where will Anne be? Prancing about on her wedding tour of Europe no doubt. Why, she and _Jane_ could go together!

I just _don't_ understand how this happened. I don't understand it at all!

**… … …**

_**20th December, Green Gables**_

Well Diary, I survived. It wasn't the most awkward moment in my life ~I've endured so many it will take something more than the Ladies Aid to bring me to my knees. So why do feel like crying?

It must be Diana's secret. Though why it should suddenly sadden me even I couldn't say. I had been hoping we could go snow-shoeing up to Hester Gray's garden this morning. Avonlea looks like a white frosted cake, dusted with powder so fine it seems to chirp as you walk upon it. And poor Marilla doesn't sound much better. Why couldn't it have been Rachel who lost her voice? Since my arrival she's been threatening hourly that it's about to disappear, though it hasn't encouraged her to ration her conversation. I wouldn't mind so much if she spoke about something other than why a girl couldn't do better than Gilbert Blythe. Why is it that no one in Avonlea can give up on the idea of our being together? Perhaps the only thing that will silence them will be his engagement.

Oh, Diary, do you really think he might marry her? I can't imagine it at all. There is nothing here that could satisfy Christine Stuart. Whereas Gilbert ~well he _is_ the Island. He could never be happy living somewhere else, I _know_ that he couldn't. Fred was crestfallen to learn Gil wouldn't be back for Christmas. He'd pulled up a stand of oaks near the pig run in order to plant potatoes, and erected a spectacular mountain of logs for the New Year's bonfire.

'Our very first party at The Pines, and probably our last for the foreseeable...' he said to me, going redder than ever.

'Yes,' Diana said, with cheeks to rival her husband, 'We thought we would do this _now, _because _next_ year...'

Then they eyed each other with these deliciously giddy expressions ~I could never imagine Roy looking at me like that. Well, I had my suspicions about those two. But they weren't confirmed until I invited Diana for a ramble through the snow, and she looked over at Fred as if expecting him to tell her whether or not her legs still worked.

'Oh, Anne,' she beamed, 'I'm not supposed to say anything yet, because we're not wholly certain and it's really too soon, but... we think... we might... we're possibly... going to have a baby!'

Then I really _did_ cry, and they were tears of undeniable joy. I felt myself blushing as I embraced them both, I couldn't help thinking that Diana and Fred have now done everything there is to express their love for each other. Whereas I haven't even been kissed.

I keep waiting for Roy to look at me _that_ way ~as Phil would say. Charlie had this unnerving habit of licking his lips when he wanted to kiss me. Sebastian Miles would hum a little tune, and Neil MacDonald would cough. Gilbert used to stare into my eyes and then gaze briefly at my mouth. Eyes flicking up, eyes flicking down. Up, down, up, down until I forgot what I was saying. It used to infuriate me. I wanted to grab his curly head and remind him to keep his eyes on mine and nothing else. I have attempted the same flickering stare with Roy, but the sweet boy only worried he had something stuck in his teeth.

Should I tell him that I have been in Gilbert's room? It was only to fetch a lamp. But when I stood there today I felt as though I was somewhere I shouldn't be. I don't know why I felt so uncomfortable. There was nothing wholly unexpected in there, in fact his room was the mirror of my own. No wonder he knew where to position my desk, he has placed his own by the fire as well. Though his is in a far worse state than mine. Marilla would never have allowed me to carve words into the desktop, no matter how battered a thing it was. Mrs Blythe appears not to mind, however. It was all so clean and cared for, with not a speck of dirt ingrained in any mark he'd made ~and not only his. Judging by the hand someone else had dug into that table, which I can only assume was John Blythe. There were anagrams too. Some audaciously rude, some obnoxiously clever, and others not for my eyes.

Above the desk there is small shelf of well thumbed books, and where I have my silvered looking glass he has another smaller window. There was a cat in that spot, catching the last of the sun on the sill, and another puss on the counterpane that covers his bed. It was made in the apple-leaf pattern ~of course it was~ in reds and whites just like mine. But the care that went into the quilt of Mrs Blythe's bonny boy was beyond anything even Rachel could conceive. It was the work of months not weeks. I couldn't help draw my hand over it. So exceedingly fine, even an embroidery dunce like me could appreciate the skill, the time, and the love it must have taken.

He had the usual rag-rug on the floor, I have a circle, he has a square. But the most interesting things were all the keepsakes on display. By the fireplace where I have all my cards and photographs he has jars filled with birds eggs and bird bones, dried grasses, iridescent feathers, scrolls of birch bark and bleached sticks of drift wood.

It was like a poem to the Island, but an Island I didn't yet know. A secret one that only those who are born here would understand. I stood there tracing my hand upon a creamy white shell that had no place on our red shores and thought about the apple tree. How he had managed to find something that no one else in Avonlea had ever seen before. And I knew even then at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon he would be up to his eyebrows in books, seeking out something in the musty old library when everyone else had gone home to their families. If I missed him how much more his mother would have. There wasn't a mote of dust upon one tiny bone. Sarah Blythe must come into his room every day and carefully clean each one. I knew why too. You couldn't help but think about him as you stood there and touched those things.

Fortunately it was thinking about Mrs Blythe that had me remember why I was in Gilbert's room in the first place. But before I could fetch the lamp the window sill cat leaped into my arms, and it was when I looked up in surprise that I saw a curious thing. Though not the most curious. Upon the ceiling pricked out in brass tacks was the Virgin's constellation. But hidden under the lamp an overwhelming discovery. Scored into the wood, like a wound, like a scar, the words~

Heavenly lone iris.

**… … …**

**26th December, The Pines, Avonlea**

So Journalette, we've finally gotten to the bottom of it! The mystery of the pink heart necklace. And a darling little thing it is too. Gilbert Blythe, you great big sentimentle lummox. I never would have thought it of him!

Apparantly it was all Davy Keith's doing. He really is an imp ~oh I _do_ hope this little bean growing inside me is a girl. I have no experience with boys, besides Fred, of course, _and_ all his brothers. But I don't have the first clue how I will manage one even a tenth as much trouble as Davy. Then again, Marilla raised Anne quite beautifully and _she_ is a spinster.

The scallywag got hold of that necklace _last_ Christmas when he was sent to collect all the mail. And there was Gilbert's little package with that sweet heart inside. Of course, Gilbert wasn't the most popular person in Avonlea round that time. All the boys and girls were simply furious about him wanting to sell Domino. And Davy was keen to get into the good graces of Pippa's big sister, so what did he do? He _gave_ it to Stella Fletcher! Well, the girl had no notion of its actual worth. It was a Cloissonne enamel, Journalette, from _France! _When she and Davy had a falling out _she_ gave it to Roberta Yearling in exchange for _her_ paste pearl bracelet. Roberta's big sister took to wearing it then, until her beau wanted to know who had given her the fancy love token. When she flung it at him _he_ went and left it for the teacher as a gift from a secret admirer. But Minnie-May saw him leaving it on her hat hook ~that Minnie-May sees _everything~_ and swiped it for herself! The little minx has been wearing it for months tucked into her little white pinafores. Until Christmas day when she didn't have to wear one and we all went round to Green Gables for dinner.

Whered'ya get such a thing? Davy roared at her. That was mine!

Where did _you_ get such a thing, Davy-boy? Anne said, taking up the pendant and studying it. Journalette, she went as pink at that sweet little heart.

Davy, of course, refused to say and was sent to his room in shame. We could hear him kicking and stomping up a storm above our heads ~Fred even offered to administer a good swift wallop! I hope he knows he won't be doing that to _our_ babies. Poor Anne was desperate to go up and discover the truth of it all. She has such a wonderful way with that boy ~with _all_ boys come to think of it. And the thought of him missing out on Christmas pudding seemed to upset her almost as much as the mystery of just where that necklace had come from.

I'm sure that was why Marilla and Rachel relented and allowed Anne to go to him. We were all so stuffed by that time anyway. Oh, I _can't_ wait to have a big round belly so I can eat as much as I want and no one will be able to tell. But right at that moment I began to feel a little green. I don't know where this idea started that expectant mothers only feels wretched in the mornings. I feel just awful at the strangest times, and Fred and I had to go home.

I was simply _bursting_ to know the truth of it all. Anne knew that, of course. She came straight round to The Pines today and that's how I found out how half the Avonlea school house had been wearing Gilbert's necklace. Well it's Anne's now. Though she wasn't wearing it, it was back in its velvet box that Davy had been keeping his crickets in! There was also a little card tucked under the cushion with a brief message. Though Anne didn't tell me what it was he'd written. But I don't expect it will be very romantic, for all he practically lives at Redmond he_ is_ an Island boy after all!

**... ... ...**

***Honeymoonitis -is what Josie calls cystitis**

***Before you judge Davy too harshly, Anne was certainly not in the marrying mood back then and had told Davy as much. I imagine he thought he'd done her a favour ;o)**

**Thank you again for reading, I will get in touch with you all soon, but wanted (needed) to keep on writing while I may. And now the Gardner's call...**


	5. Chapter XXXV

**Oooh, almost half way through the final installment! How did that happen? Like the girls getting ready for Convocation, now that it is here I find I don't want it to end. Here we have that famous scene, otherwise known as Aline v Cake. As I have written quite a bit of Anne lately I thought it be interesting to show this scene through other eyes, and tie up one loose end good and proper. After Anne's experience at the Blythe's I hope you can easily imagine how she feels after this meeting, now we shall discover what her best chums think.**

**One more thing, a detail I'd like you to know is that the name Bright Bell is part of the anagram 'yet bright bell' that Anne came up with in RD1 on the ferry crossing to N.S. Why do I want you to know? Just because...  
**

**CHAPTER XXXV**

**_Patty's Place, January 8th 1887_**

**Priss Report #6**

Anne has written the most delightful story. Truly, it's a delight! Which is a relief, after _Averil_ I wasn't sure if she could take another disappointment -or whether I could find fresh words to console her. But this story. I laughed, I sighed, I repeated whole phrases out loud, and lay back onto the rug and grinned. So funny, so true, and so very, very Anne. That is the best part of all. Every line sings of the girl I love, my dear, dear chum. To think she kept the entire enterprise to herself. None of us had the slightest notion she had been writing. When I heard her talking to herself I assumed she was trying to commit some monologue to heart for an English paper.

After passing around the publisher's letter, and then leaping about the room like fools -excepting Jimsie, who was quick to point out the responsibilities of the writerly life- we demanded Anne find a copy of her work to read to us. We sat by the fire expectantly but Anne couldn't sit for long. She was brimming with excitement -_blooming out_ as Phil would say- and stood before us, eyes aglow, while we all clapped, cheered and vowed to celebrate with the sort of unruly abandon that involves a ten dollar cheque and the top shelf of the Rosewood Inn.

It's a simple story -not even that, more of a moment- about a wild canary, with the wit and cheek of Puck himself, who Anne has named Bright Bell. Also featured were these jolly little flower spirits, _four_ of them, just like the girls of Patty's Place. Well, what did I say, writers are always looking to turn real life into copy. Phil is convinced that she is the Aster maiden -she always believes herself the heroine. Then there is a good sweet Lilac, a shy little Violet, and an untamed Lily, who declared at the end that she would rather marry herself than take a husband. Best of all, like a warm and benevolent breeze was a Guardian Spirit, who breathed epithets of wisdom all through the tale, and made me want to run to Anne, kiss her cheeks and tell her how clever she is.

Little wonder the magazine asked for her for more. _Not Yet Bright Bell_ by Miss A. Shirley is to come out next month. They have even asked if Anne would care to talk with their illustrator in order to have a few sketches to accompany her work. We all promised to buy at least twenty copies each. I am so elated for her, and for us. There is genuine cheer in our house again. January has been so bleak -inside _and_ out. We are in that peculiar place where we long for exams to be over whilst dreading our time at Patty's Place coming to an end.

The more time passes the more I know I am not ready to leave. I thought I was. With Stella and I no longer- well simply no longer, it seemed sensible us moving on. But lately I have been thinking about Jimsie's daughter, who went on to do her Master's degree. Father says he will not consider my pursuing it unless I take top in Greek. And not just _girls'_ Greek, Prissy, but _men's_ Greek too -as though there were two kinds. I am quietly grateful Phil is so focussed on Mathematics, she could certainly take the prize in Ancient Studies if she chose. Now it feels within in my grasp it terrifies and thrills me. There was a time when I was sure that I would never come to Redmond at all. Now, after seeing what Anne has done, I yearn to write my own thesis and add to the knowledge of the world.

I sound like Gil. I am looking forward to seeing him this afternoon, i's the first clear day for weeks and we all mean to spend it out of doors. I don't know Jennie Cooper that well, but the moment I heard of her walking party I began to wish like everyone else that the sun might make an appearance today. And as I look out the dining room window I see my wish has been granted. I think Gilbert will be needing it's cheer more than most. It used to be he was always outside playing football, wandering the night or adding to our woodpile (Roy never did get round to helping me move to my new room.) Now Gil's become such a fixture in the Redmond library I've heard they've given him a key.

I've also heard his folks had to sell their orchard in order to pay for his final year. Those rumours about his attachment to Christine Stuart are surely unfounded. As handsome as he is he's not moneyed enough for her. I doubt Miss Stuart will be content to swap her cello recitals at Belgrave Hall for prayer meetings in the old blue one. Of course, no one thinks of expecting a man to choose. He may do what he will, and Gilbert will certainly return to the Island. Anne thinks so too, but saying so to Phil only results in her calling us parochial, narrow minded, countrified potato-heads.

If Gilbert takes the Cooper, she told us, he'll have his pick of Medical schools and Hospitals. And the same applies to you, Miss Authoress. There's no cause for you to become headmistress of some hokey old Island highschool after graduation, Bolingbroke Ladies College is the most prestigious school in Nova Scotia.

You may find she chooses _neither_, Jimsie said, giving Anne a significant look.

Neither of those schools _have_ chosen me, Aunty. I have simply been informed of possible openings.

Oh, they want you alright, Phil winked, and they aren't the _only_ ones.

Minister wives aren't supposed to wink! Jimsie fumed.

And what about Royal Gardner's wife, what is she supposed to do? Stella wondered.

Strange to say, none of us could think of one thing.

**… … …**

_**Friday 13th January, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue**_

_**The Rose Notebook**_

Well, if I had any niggles about Queen Anne's future I can finally put them to bed -as Jo would say. What a lot of them are tucked up now and sleeping soundly. I can only hope my own babies will be so obliging. That little boy we met on Sunday, what a racket he made! After day upon day of misery-inducing rain it seemed like half of Kingsport decided to go for a tramp up the hillside. Even so I was hoping for just the tiniest slice of quiet -I need to practice how to contemplate- but these people who insist on edifying their offspring at every opportunity! "I say Barnaby, what sort of cloud is that? See here, Barnaby, that plant is called arbutus. Ar-but-us!" To which little Barney could only whine, "I want my train, I want to go home!" I think I prefer droney Charlie Sloane.

When I have babies and they want to play train then I shall lie about on the floor and be a track for them, or a bridge -and not use it as an excuse to inculcate good engineering techniques! Jo says if you want to grow a good strong soul then let him be three when he is three and ten when he is ten, don't try and make a ten year old from a three year old. That way when he is a man then he will know exactly who he is. If such an upbringing made my Jo exactly who _he_ is then I can only agree. His papa did a miraculous job raising his baby boy. Those Blakey ears of his, however, and that _nose!_ I think I shall be grateful if our kiddies take after the Byrne side after all.

Roy must have taken after his father too. I'm surprised his mother allowed it -what a force she is! I hope she and Mother are never introduced, there isn't a building constructed that could hold them both together. I am half sorry I will never use my supreme mathematics skills to discover how that could be done. After divine Miss Shirley went and got herself published -that tale becomes funnier every time I read it, I do love a story like that- we Patty's Place girls are simply bursting with ambition. Prissy wants to do her Masters. Stella wants to travel, though she lacks the funds for that and means to become a secretarial assistant for some hotel-hopping millionaire. Clever Miss Maynard. Papa could name two or three likely fellows who might suit. I was almost jealous. Until I remembered I would never be content taking short-hand in a train compartment when I could be cosying up in a big ol' bed with Jonas Blake!

Don't you want to_ do_ something? Prissy asks me. As though _doing_ meant seeing what I haven't seen, or inventing that which wasn't.

I _will_ be doing something, I tell her_, and_ I'll be doing it with Jo by my side. Who could possibly want for more?

I admit my simple wishes did waver when I saw what the Gardners were wearing today. Yards and yards of Duchesse satin! On a Friday afternoon! To visit the house of some upstart you hoped never to visit again! Anne won them over eventually, Is there anyone who has not been won over by my honey? Granted Aline will always be prickly, we _all_ saw that. Sitting there with that haughty look on her face as though that silly china dog was the only thing of value in the room. All it did was show how wanting she is in the art of conversation. I know very well it's Aline who'll be given the benefit of her mother's opinion on the carriage ride home -for showing the Gardners up.

But her sister is a dear, so easy to adore and so ready to adore others. It fills me with hope for Anne if Dorothy Gardner has managed to keep stay so sweet around those two sour pusses. Lucky thing for her to have Roy. How many times did I wish for a sympathetic brother amongst all my lot? I suppose Alec and Alonzo did much to make up for it. Ugh! Has it really come to that? I am now thinking of the ghosts of future husbands past as the _brotherly_ sort_. _Suddenly the way Anne sees Gilbert makes ten times the world of sense to me.

How wrong it would have been for them to settle for each other. Imagine Anne never knowing Roy! Never knowing all the precious things her little heart longed for. As for Gilbert Blythe, well he is the veritable dark horse these days, so grave and ambitious. Prissy seems to think Christine would never agree to marry a poor but perfectly formed Island boy. But then she hasn't considered exactly _why_ Gilbert Blythe has taken it upon himself to work as ludicrously hard as he is. To better himself for Christine, of course. Yes, Anne's refusal really was the best thing for both of them. What a wise little thing she is!

She didn't give that impression this afternoon. At least not at first. Really Roy! He's such a sappy fool for Anne he can't be trusted with what comes out of his mouth. Fancy confusing Saturday elevenses with a Friday tea. Poor Anne, you could see how flustered she was, and she wasn't the only one. All the Island girls were flipping about the house like fish in a basket. Luckily I know how to keep my head, I think it was the first time Jimsie found something about me she approves of. Well, someone had to show them how it was done.

Anne will learn -she'll have to- that a _true_ lady is never seen to flap. If she is discovered in her tired flannel shirtwaist and her hair all mussy then that is precisely how she means to appear. The same goes for a lady's home. If her room should be scattered with paper and cats, and the air smells like a patisserie, then that is because she wishes it that way. The proper way to behave in a crisis is to appear as if there is no crisis at all.

Anne being Anne, of course, was not content to mend the situation but turn it around completely. Not only was she able to keep up a steady line of chatter as though Aline hadn't just killed the cake, she dared to disagree with the Gardner matriarch about cats -who knew Anne loved them so much? I think that was when Mrs Gardner decided perhaps this Miss Shirley might do for Royal after all. She tried to hide it, but the Bluenose in me recognised that unmistakeable sign of begrudging tolerance. Anne couldn't hope for better than that.

A life with Roy will not be the fireside dream she always goes on about. They'll be no gay times round the Christmas table, no one to make up for the mother she has missed. Anne will have her work cut out and Aline at least could certainly stand to be taken down a peg or two. But in their own highfaluting way they need Anne Shirley, just as I did. Besides, what are cosy comforts to Anne when she has Royal Gardner. Soon _I_ shall never again know the feel of Duchesse silk. But I shall always have Jo.

And even better, _he_ shall have me.

**… … …**

**_Friday 13th January, Patty's Place -1054 days without you_  
**

Dear Mags,

Such a day, such a day! Unexpected visitors, a squashed cake -chocolate fudge made with three pounds of butter, I could have wept real tears if I wasn't so busy trying to stop myself bursting with laughter. Then there were the crazed cats, who looked as if they wanted to use Roy's mama's silks as a scratching post. Then there was Aline, the ice-maiden type if ever there was one. Then there was Dorothy, with her tilted hat and her golden eyes like a tiny owl. And then... just as I sat at my half of the desk and looked at the place where a bed used to be (now taken up by racks of Phil's clothing) Priscilla Grant suddenly appeared in my doorway.

The conversation started easily enough, Anne's grand visitors had given us so much to talk of it was simple to think of a way to begin. As always it was the end that proved trickier.

"What was that you ran over to tell Dorothy Gardner?" Priscilla asked me, pretending to find the cuff of her kimono wholly absorbing.

"Where I had remembered her from," I told her.

To be honest I should have been helping out Anne with my share of the conversation. Instead I spent almost the entire hour of the Gardner's call trying to place her face. Dorothy too, I noticed, was trying to put a name to mine.

"She seems lovely," Priss said -she would say quietly, I would say sulkily. It really was too much, Mags, and I told her so.

"She _is_ lovely! You saw that for yourself. I'm not looking to replace you, Priscilla. I remember once, and it was an age ago so I'll forgive you if _you_ don't, but I remember you told me never to run away from you again."

I looked pointedly at the place where her bed once stood, in what you would call typical Maynard fashion, and what Priss would say was like a kestrel, when she began cry. Well, I've cried so many times over I am afraid I've become that hard sort, who forgets what it's like to be in the midst of desolation once they have made their way out to the other side. As Mr Royal Gardner himself likes to say, tears are as rain. And so they are, Mags. Neither good nor bad, just wet. So I waited for her to finish bawling and then I said,

"That cake you made-"

"Your favourite," she sniffed.

"But what did you mean," I continued, "when you peeled that cushion off it and said _the saddest things are might have beens_?"

I was expecting her to tell me that she was speaking of that chocolate coated disaster, of course, but she didn't. Dear Mags, she didn't!

She took my face in her tear streaked hands and said, "I was talking about us, and you know very well I was, Stella Maynard. I came up here to tell you that I made another cake. And you and I are going to go downstairs and eat the whole thing while _you_ read me that paper you were working on, and _I_ listen enthusiastically, and _we_ learn to be friends again.

She's down there now, Mags. Icing my cake and waiting for me. And I shall let her wait. But not too long.

**… … …**

**So what do you think of the little futures I have dreamed up for my girls? Next up, woot woot! It's Convocation! **


	6. Chapter XXXVI

**Ok, deep breath, be brave...**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. ~everything is hers, only this idea is mine**

**Chapter XXXVI**

_**April 20th ~Patty's Place**_

Diary, shall I tell you something? If you should find yourself crinkled and warped, if your ink is smeared and loosely scrawled then that is because, dearest of books, you are being held above steamy water and rested upon damp knees as I attempt to write in you.

I have been resisting, _how_ I have resisted, giving into this feeling inside. Such a silken river flows within me, and the only thing that can contain it is this coppery bathtub. I don't know if it's the culmination of an old dream or the dawning of a new that has conjured this longing. The girls are becoming understandably fed up with me spending all hours in the washroom, which is why I went to spectacular efforts, heating up buckets of water at dawn and lugging them upstairs so that I could bathe in the quiet of my room.

It is not yet seven, Convocation is in three hours. The sun is attempting to creep through my curtains and paint fingers of light on my skin, but I shut it out. I want to lie in the dark, look up at my starry ceiling and yield to this ache. Can I tell you something else, Diary? I am wearing the pendant. I often put it on only to take it off again. But not this morning. Do you know what I love to do? Take it in my mouth like a piece of candy. I roll it around on my tongue and suck it, I can almost taste it, musky and sweet. I zip it back and forth on its chain the way Stella does ~but I cannot write so well when I do that. I press it between my fingers and feel it pulsing, pulsing, pulsing~

**Later...**

Two hours till Convocation. I still haven't dressed. I can hear Stella running up and down the stairs seeking out her onyx bobs. I can hear Priss assuring her for the third time that she put them back exactly where she was told to after borrowing them. I can hear the front door slam as they run out to help with the Reception committee. No doubt I will soon hear Phil knocking at my door asking when I plan to empty the tub and return it to the washroom. But I can't begin to do something so everyday and ordinary.

When I got out of the bath I stood before the mirror and stared at myself for the longest time. The water ran down my skin in blissful drips so that every pore tightened and every hair stood on end. I looked at myself and I loved that girl. I loved plain Anne Shirley. I loved her big grey eyes and her seven freckles, I even loved her hair ~it was wet enough to pass for auburn. I loved her long white neck, her tiny waist and her strong rounded thighs.

I belong to you, I told myself, and I love everything about you. Your contrariness and your steadfastness, your courage and your failures. I knew there was someone I was failing right then, knew it even when I never felt so true. I stared at that heart nuzzling against my throat and wished I never had to take it off. But I will, I will... Just not quite yet.

**Later...**

One hour to Convocation. Apparently Phil had the foresight to bathe last night. 'We have to grab the chance when we can, honey, you are a positive mermaid. I suppose 'The Youth's Friend' has asked you to write about one.'

I could easily do so, Diary. I understand more than I ever did how Andersen's mermaid must have felt, to be filled with desire and yet unable to speak of it. I used to wonder why she would be content to return to the waves. But now I know.

What I do not know is how to choose.

Two boxes arrived for me just now, delivered with haste by Phil. 'Naked or not,' she said, 'we are leaving in thirty minutes.' And placed them both on my table.

One I recognised immediately, because Roy never gets his flowers from anywhere else. But the other, it was a yellow striped box that would have once held a small purchase from Lawsons. I could smell what was inside before I removed the lid. The most exquisite posy of lily of the valley.

I know I shouldn't feel this way. But I can't undo what we once had anymore than he can.

He is thinking about me.

He is about to claim the most prestigious academic prize that Nova Scotia can offer and he is thinking about me.

He is about to stroll off into a future of acclaim and promise, one that resulted from his own superlative efforts and self belief. And he is thinking about me.

Our starry ceilings ~he is thinking about me.

The little pink heart ~he is thinking about me.

The word games we played, and the songs at the piano.

Our dreams for each other, our memories. Years ago when we sat under the birch tree where the lilies grow wild, and wove them round our heads like laurels.

'For future Doctor Blythe,' I said.

'For plain Anne Shirley,' he said.

'Plain Anne Shirley?' I said. 'Thank you for your compliment, I'm sure.'

'It's the biggest compliment I could give a person, Anne,' he said to me. 'You couldn't give the world more than who you are right now.'

I scoffed at him, of course. I pulled that wreath off his curly head and socked him on the nose with it.

'You're only saying that so that I don't go to the trouble of trying to best you in English, or Latin, or the noble works we will find ourselves studying in September.'

He laughed at me, but then became serious. He didn't often get serious, I suppose that's why I remember that day so well.

'I'd never do that,' he said. 'I could take High Honours and win every prize going but it wouldn't be the same without you by my side. Whatever we achieve at Redmond, Anne, I hope we achieve it together.'

Roy doesn't know, nor should he, the strength of will it took for Gilbert and me to get here. Roy is content to make a good showing in his classes and go onto other adventures. He's never had the kind of life that compelled him to want more for himself. And in that I would say he is blessed.

We share a bond that has had every good thing showered upon it in order to make to us bloom. But like that perfect posy of violets we have never yet known what it's like to have the wind tear at us, or the sun bear down with unrelenting heat. I need for us to know that too. I want to _know_ that if I should hurt Roy or let him down that he will still want to know me, he will still be thinking of me. I want to be understood, I want to be _known_. The way Gilbert knows me.

**… … …**

_**April 20th Mayberry Avenue**_

She was looking at me.

She was wearing my lilies and she was looking at me.

She was wearing my favourite dress, green and cream like my posy pinned at her waist, and she was looking at me.

I went up to accept my prize and listened to Professor Radcliffe, Doctor Meares, and Sir Herbert Downie laud my diligence, integrity, passion, and sheer force of will, and she was looking at me. At that point everyone was looking at me, but Anne was the only one I noticed. I couldn't get used to the feeling of her eyes seeking mine. Not glaring at me, or pitying me, or avoiding me completely. But looking at me. With that open candid stare that floored me the first day I met her.

I forgot to blink, I shook one man's hand twice and the ignored the other fellow completely. When they all stood to applaud Anne was the first one to her feet, besides Mother and Father. Though they never really sat but hovered over their chairs, four years of anticipation waiting to be clapped out until their hands went numb.

But my eyes never left Anne. I could see her try to make my way toward me as the crowds dispersed, but we couldn't get closer than forty feet. There was always someone who wanted to shake my hand, someone who wanted to kiss Anne's cheek. Eventually that someone was Gardner. He didn't kiss her, however, he turned her round and lead her to the foyer. As she got to the doors I saw her turn, just once, and she was looking straight at me.

**… … …**

_**Patty's Place**_

What have I been doing? I read over that ridiculous account I wrote earlier today and I want to cry. No, I want to laugh. Idiot, idiot, idiot girl. Ungrateful, faithless idiot!

Can I dance with you, Anne? he says to me. As though he wasn't about to marry someone else. Phil was _right_. About _everything_. Gilbert Blythe has been killing himself with work in order to be good enough for her. It was all for Christine and I am a fool.

That heart, those lilies, mere tokens of days gone by. A friendly send off, a brief farewell, nothing more. Of course nothing more. Why should there be something more? Why should he go to the trouble of telling me he's marrying somebody else?

I would have told _him_. I would have at least given him the care and respect of telling him, instead of leaving him to find out as though he barely mattered. He actually looked offended when I said no. Clearly he forgets I am not the kind to fall at his feet. But to have to stand there as he walked back to the table where his folks sat chatting happily with Christine. Christine who didn't wear a posy! No doubt because it would distract from her perfect silhouette. Or because instead of a tiny sprig of lilies she has vast bouquets of something utterly Christine-ish waiting for her at home. Violets for those _violet_ eyes no doubt.

If only I had worn mine. Poor, dear Roy. What was I thinking putting Gilbert's flowers before Roy's, that Roy would simply bat me on the head with them and give me a wink? Instead he pulled me away from the crowds, unable to think of anything else. Not congratulation, not joy, just what happened to his posy? Of course I didn't have an answer ready, I pinned those lilies to my hip without thinking much at all. Did I even mean to? I was in such a rush to make it to the ceremony after wasting all that time in the bath I could have easily grabbed the wrong one.

'Did you not receive the violets?' Roy asked me. 'Tell me they arrived on time! I could not live if on this most auspicious of days you thought I had forsaken you!'

I told him the lilies were a reminder of Green Gables days, that as Marilla couldn't be there I was wearing them in her honour. I lied to him, Diary. I have no honour at all.

'But you did get them,' he asked once more. 'You did receive my violets?'

It took some time before he believed me. He is such a sensitive soul, no doubt he felt I had told him a falsehood. I have never seen him look so hurt ~and that is saying something. To think I wanted to be sure of his feelings for me. I don't deserve him.

But Gilbert and Christine, I'm sure they're perfect for each other.

**… … …**

_**Mayberry Avenue**_

I don't love her anymore. I don't. I really don't. It feels strange, stranger than seeing my name in one of her stories. Odder than seeing my flowers pinned to her waist. Yet it's true. I don't love her. I've loved her since I was thirteen years old, and now I don't. It's gone, it's dead, it's forgotten. Truly I am already forgetting what it was like. Or at least when I begin to remember I just make myself think of her face saying no to me tonight.

The anger in her eyes. If she'd slapped me in the face I could not have felt more stunned. I had to remind myself how to make my legs work. Mr Cooper Prize. Mr Prize Idiot. Well not any more. Next time I see her I'll be sure to thank her for what she did. I can go back to the Island now and never think of her again.

She doesn't love me, I've known that for a long time. But this time it's different. Because now I don't love her.

**... ... ...**

**That was hard :o(**

**I've had so many gorgeous reviews. Here are a few replies-**

**First of all heavenly lone iris spells I love Anne Shirley. Yet bright bell spells Gilbert Blythe**

**Guest: Nah, it's not me getting better it's the diarists, they've been doing this for four years now ;o)**

**Starryskies: As a person who once lurked let me say it's no small thing to come out from the shadows, so please know how happy your words made me. **

**JennwithaPenn: Thank you my dearest, you are always unfailingly generous and I'm so lucky to have you -and your incredible stories (hint!)  
**

**Rebeccathehistorian: Wow, you go deep. I believe Marilla did want Anne to have a career -or at least a way to support herself, which was talked about in 'The Queens Club is Organised' I think. Also Anne gave up her career because GILBERT BLYTHE! It's a travesty she couldn't have both, but I think he is the one she would forever regret  
**

**FKAJ: I think Phil really did believe Anne and Roy were OTP. There was probably a lovely sense of symmetry for her too, that she chose a poor man and Anne chose a rich one. Anne is choosing the Bolingbroke life over Island life and right now that will seem a sort of victory for Phil ;o)  
**

**Bertha: Thank you for picking up how hard I work to keep the plot moving without it sounding like an explosion at the exposition factory!**

**Edkchestnut: Cool idea about the Gardners turning up on the wrong day on purpose. As to Anne's lack of homemaking skills, she never was overly particular I think, but we only have the opinions of Charlie and Josie as to her actual ability. As to the anniversary bungling in AoI, think about all those tv medical dramas we love. Sometimes Gilbert just gets lost in a case, doesn't mean he doesn't love Anne, he just cares A LOT about his work.**

**Amybf: Thank you, giving each character their own discernible voice matters a lot to me**

**Alinya: I could tell you liked that chapter, and nothing makes me happier**

**KBsMomma: Thank you!**

**EnnaEnerge: I liked those lines too :o)**

**Dianastorm: Thank you, darling. You always get me :o)  
**

**Thank you again for reading and for all your encouragement. I think it's time we heard from Roy and Christine one last time.  
**


	7. Chapter XXXVII

**Thank you for that overwhelming response! I was expecting some blow back from that last chapter, instead it seems to have made as much sense to you as it did to me, even if it was hard to read. This chapter took a little longer to write because I needed a little longer to get into a new frame of mind. With so few chapters perhaps I shouldn't have given these two so much space to go on (and on) ? Oh well, we never have to read about them again -though I for one shall miss them...**

**Chapter XXXVII  
**

_**April 22nd, 1887**_

_**Redmond Halls of Residence ~a single man shares his final thoughts  
**_

After a serendipitous collision with Monty Coniston at the Reception I find myself reconsidering our plans to summer on Prince Edward this year. Naturally we shall make a brief visit after the engagement, though I wonder if Anne's various connection could not be persuaded to come to Charlottetown. It will be tiresome trying to come by suitable lodgings in Avonside if we don't intend to stay for long. Anne and I will need to be on the May Steamer to France if we are to join the Coniston-Branthwaithes on tour to Italy. Their villa on Lake Como is_ bellisimo._ Ah, to see my Beatrice in the land of Dante. _Adoro la mia dea!_

If I am not mistaken, and I cannot conceive that I am ~for Anne and I are of _one_ mind and _one_ heart~ a small celebration will be more delightful to her. I am mindful of her anticipating some joyful events in June, but my sweet, selfless rose would doubtless prefer a more intimate wedding arrangement in order that we might set sail before then.

How my hands tremble as I think of her and I _alone_ together. What joys, what passions will be ours at last, when we may finally indulge in the arousing works of Rochester, _Byron! _As I think of her dewy lipped mouth reciting his luminous phrases I can scarce hold my pen! Yet for all the beauty of our magnificent language what could be more mellifluous to my ear than her simple yes?

_Yes!_

My sweet darling, yes!

I can see her sitting in our little Pavillion, hear her voice inflamed with feeling, as she utters the one word which will make our cherished dream come true. Oh, that I should be the man to bestow such joy upon her._ La felicite e il mio!_

When was the day, the hour, the moment that I _knew_ this beloved angel in all her singular wit and uncommon feature was meant for me alone? Was it when she stood at the lectern like Juliet that cold November eve? I believe that was when I truly learned that a sparkling intellect could furnish a woman with a radiance more rare than a thousand carat diamond.

Was it when I came to her rescue after she had been cruelly disenchanted by her second rate umbrella? I believe that was when I realised that men and women though so different in substance and understanding may also be_ united by _a common sensibility. Here was a maid who scorned the wildness of the weather, just as I had myself, bravely venturing out with the spirit of Bronte in her breast. She was my windswept damsel, and in those stormy grey eyes did I see such light, such candour shining back at me. Not for her the flattering, flittering glances meant to keep me forever guessing the mysteries of her heart. From the very first moment her extraordinary looks all but declared~

_As I make the case for the role of paganism in 18th century poetry, Mr Gardner, so do I love. I do not play with the idea. I avow it fearlessly, I do not hold back._

I imagine once she is reassured of my intentions this candour will duly soften, as a bright and burning sun then sets with the tenderest blush. But it is my secret wish it should not entirely abate. That with the coming years, as we travel and dream and write ~she her dear little books and I my penetrating monographs~ her devotion should have a thread of that passion forever running through it.

As wonderfully alive as her brilliant hair soaring like a banner of true love on the bitter November winds.

**Later...**

I have since amended my proposal and exchanged the phrase about 'our love as a blossoming crown upon April's glories' to the phrase 'our love like a scarlet banner flying bright through all adversity.' For has not the world itself been against our union? My dearest darling, to have so little faith that we might overcome our differences in upbringing that she actually applied (and was accepted, my clever angel) for a position as headmistress at an Island school. Consoling herself with a life devoted to the dreams of children less fortunate should we ourselves be barred from a life together.

How she intoxicates me with her modesty, her industry, her fervency. I love her! I love my dearest lady with all my heart, and yearn for the day I might take her into my arms and keep her with me _all_ the days of my life.

**… … …**

**_April 23rd, 1887 ~be this day forever carved upon my heart as one of agonised woe, unbearable grief and unimaginable anguish_  
**

She rejected me. Miss Shirley _rejected_ me.

Will I ever survive this day? I cannot breathe. Cannot see the page before me. Nor bring one word to mind that might convey the torment, the torture, the humiliation, and the loss_.  
_

The _agonising_ loss.

My heart is not merely broken. Oh no, she was not content to plunge her hand into my chest and shatter it into a million pieces. She gathered up each jagged remnant and threw them into the sea. Condemning that trusting, delicate organ to be drowned in the murky depths of love unrequited, and myself ~a man who committed _no_ crime except to love her~ to live without his heart for all eternity.

I am ruined.

A mere shell.

Empty as though the very winds of November sang through my carcass. Yet how I ache with exquisite, undeserved and unlooked for agony.

How can I return to Alderley without her? Aline will laugh, no, she will _mock_ me! And _Mother! _What will she say? When Anne has been introduced to the McCords _and_ the Coniston-Branthwaites. It is almost as though she intended to hurt me by as vile a means as possible.

But no...

_No!_

I _love_ her.

Love that tempestuous soul, she who cannot be ensnared by _any_ man.

I should not be at all surprised if she was _incapable_ of true love. Her orphaned soul has wreaked a bitter price. Was there not always something almost unnatural about her? How else to explain the way she seemed to invite caresses, the way her eyes would stare into my very soul? Poor, oblivious Anne. To have come so close to your harbour, only to toss your salvation aside and leave me to drown in an ocean of woe.

Oh, that I could. What shall I tell Madame Lilian of my order for one hundred scarlet roses? Or the Murchison Street jeweller, who promised a private viewing so that Anne might select the jewel that spoke most to her heart?

Does she even have one? Has some villain done to her what she has now visited upon me? Am I then compelled to smite the dreams of someone poor innocent? It shall _never_ come to pass. No matter it might soothe my pride it can never soothe my soul. Not even Byron, not even _the Bard_ himself can assuage the pain I feel.

Oh Anne, Anne! So different in looks, in style, in expression to any woman I have ever known. I thought, no I _believed_ that it was because she was different that _we_ could be different. We could have had _such_ a love; we could have shown them all! I would have showered her with all she desired. Never realising ~_fool_ that I am~ such a woman wants for nothing, that under her fiery exterior she is ice, ice cold.

A singular a woman destined always to be single. Who cursed me to walk this earth alone, forever in search of my wretched heart...

...and for a way to forget her beguiling wintry beauty.

**… … …**

_**L.Y.H.R. Kingsport, April 23rd, 1887**_

_And that Mrs Drury is that!_

_The year is over, the day is done. Mr Blythe has packed his little trunk with his little belongings and returned to his little Island. I did my best, and well you know, Phoebs, my best is far superior than the usual humdrum efforts. I managed to secure an interview with the illustrious Professor Keaton himself! Do you know what a bore it was having to wheedle such an introduction from Andrew? The lies I told! Well, he would keep asking me questions! Why did I want to meet the head of Medicine at Halifax? Why my sudden and frankly uncharacteristic interest in the career of some earnest bookish sort? So I may not have painted Mr Blythe in the most flattering light. But you saw his photograph, Phoebe -if Andrew had seen it he would have clambered back to Kingsport in an instant. As it is he is anticipating a September arrival. Wyoming has been reached and so has my dear fiance's capacity for patience.  
_

_"Got to decide one way or the other, my girl. I'm coming for you now. Either I find you at Belvedere awaiting yours truly, or you find a way to support yourself with that cello of yours. Because your Papa certainly won't."_

_After such a romantic declaration I don't have to tell you how I began to waver. But don't judge me too harshly, as I recall you had several wobbles before you relinquished yourself to Mr Drury. You really should look into a more substantial lock for your bedroom door, Phoebs -or for your drawers! You've only just been delivered of little Fanshawe, surely you can't be expecting already. If you mean to give up the violin then I entreat you, tell me plainly. You needn't get with child yet again in order to make your point._

_You won't believe me but I entertained the notion of knocking out one or two myself. Call it panic, call it sentimental, certainly call it unaccountable, but I began to build what Mr Blythe rather prettily describes as 'castles in the air'. Conjuring a fool's paradise whereupon he gave up Redmond to study under the esteemed eye of Professor Keaton, before stepping into a prestigious position at St Leonard's. Truly, I was one mawkish step away from taking samples of drape fabric from Knott and Co and dreaming up names for our offspring!  
_

_But it all came to nothing once Ma and Pa Blythe arrived for Convocation. Don't be fooled, Phoebs, these weren't your usual hayseed yokels. They could hardly have produced such a son otherwise. My every suggestion; an invitation to summer at Belvedere, the faultless reputation of St Leonard's Hospital, the esteemed work of Keaton and his colleagues, was met with the same response -like a leitmotif that worms its way into your ear and torments you hourly, "Our boy needs to go home, Miss Stuart."_

_"But the Professor will only be in residence until June!" I protested._

_"Our boy needs to go home."_

_There was simply no persuading them. You'd think I'd been offering a bottle of absinthe and a night at a bordello! All my scheming was about to be undone, but I know enough about men to remember that what mother dear wants is often at odds with what they want themselves. It was only polite that Mr Blythe was made very sure of just what he was giving up. He just now called on me for the last time before he caught his train, so I just happened to say~_

_"When shall we announce it?"_

_"Announce what?" he said_

_"Our engagement, Mr Blythe! You must have noticed the entire Reception was ablaze with the news."_

_I had hoped to make him blush or give the least indication that he warmed to the idea. Instead he went quite still. _

_"A better man would have put a stop to it. I can only say I'm sorry. Not only for this, but for all the days I was stuck in a book, or stuck in a fog. Sorry too if my folks offended you. They could not know the stature of a man like Keaton. That you persuaded him to meet with me -Christine, I don't deserve you."_

_Then he kissed me briefly, held me close, and was gone. My first feeling was utter relief. It's one thing to entertain the idea of an ignominious life on the arm of some doctor, another to actually live it. As overbearing as Mr Dawson is there's a certain thrill in knowing how determined he is to make me his. Whereas if I kept Mr Blythe from his blessed Island I should always feel I had married half a man (why don't you guess which half I'd prefer, Phoebs?) He pines for that place the way he pines for that aggravating red head -which reminds me, have I mentioned her publisher is putting out a volume of her fairy stories? I wish I could scoff, you know that I do, but her work does have a certain charm. Your brats would probably adore it. St Anne is as clever and whimsical as Mr Blythe always averred she was. Not that I ever saw much evidence of it. Then again, she never saw much of me either._

_I know all Mr Blythe's secrets, however. I know that he has been cursed with a freakish capacity for devotion -truly it goes to Wagnerian depths. And while I can certainly make a fair melody, even my talents could not drown out that dratted motif harking on about hearth and home. I really don't know whose tragedy is the greater, his or my own.  
_

_If I am not careful you might conclude that I already miss him dreadfully. Or that, heaven forbid, I would have given up my future role as mistress of Chessa Downes to be a simple doctor's wife. Worst of all, that I loved him! That I had fallen in fatuous, hopeless love with Mr Gilbert Blythe! _

_But we all know that to be impossible, Phoebs, because I simply don't do love._

_**... ... ...**_

_**Thank you again for reading! Next up a wedding and a birth...**_


	8. Chapter XXXVIII

**Hello, once more! You may be accustomed to two or three chapters per week, and if you are then I am sorry for the wait. I needed to take my time to get it all just right. When I said in the previous chapter, a wedding and a birth, I am sure you will have been expecting something different to what I wrote below. But in a way something was joined together, and something too was beginning to be born. So I hope it doesn't disappoint too much. And now for one last time -because why wouldn't I- the most Ochre-ish Phil in the world!  
**

**_Chapter XXXVIII_**

**_April 23rd, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue  
_**

**The Ochre Notebook**

It's a good thing we are in the midst of boxing up our little nest, I doubt I would have found the Ochre Notebooks if I hadn't been elbow deep in tissue and cashmere. There they were, tucked inside an old fuchsia cloak -I _cannot_ believe I ever wore such a colour. It's nearly as gruesome as what I'm about to tell you now, and you must bear it, dear old Ochre. Because if I don't pour myself into you I will certainly pour forth -like hot oil upon the barbarians- over none other than Queen Anne herself!

Failing that I could always throw her on the bonfire that Stella is building at the end of the orchard. Ugh, is there anything worse than when those we dare to worship do things that disappoint us? What does Anne mean by _refusing_ Roy Gardner! _Royal Gardner!_ How could she? Really, how _could_ she! I cannot believe it of her, nor possibly understand. She maintains she was neither flirting with him, _nor_ encouraging him, _nor_ after his money. So then what on earth has she been doing with the poor boy for _two_ years? What else could she be expecting except to become the future Mrs Royal Gardner?

There's not the least use in asking her. She will only keep saying that she needs someone who _belongs_ in her life, as though the world was made up of matching pairs like it is in a novel. Is there a man alive -or in a book for that matter- more romantic than Roy? Or an earthly reason why the handsomest, cleverest, richest, goodest fellow in all Kingsport _doesn't_ belong in her life?

What a lost and mangled thing she looks. Worse than my dusty pink flowerpot! Fancy me wearing such an eyesore -that's heading straight for the bonfire. Though perhaps I might spare Anne. Even though I really am eleven shades of cross with her I couldn't help but hug her to me. Anne said her refusal had spoiled everything backwards and I believe she's right. I swear the goose has less sense now than when she first came to Redmond! Unfortunately I haven't learned the miraculous way Anne has of comforting a person without making them feel worse. She will _not_ be consoled and she _won't_ be told. Though I don't know why. I feel far better already.

Ugh, and now there's someone at the door. And the girls are in the orchard and Anne is in a funk, so I suppose it's up to _me_ to shoo them away!

**Later...**

Of all people! Gilbert Blythe on the porch steps wanting to see Anne.

"Hold on, won't you," I said to him, "Anne may need a moment -Mr Gardner has only now proposed!"

I didn't dare invite him in. Honestly, he'll see her on the Island in a few days time, what could be so important? I suppose I could have asked. But I was so fed up with Anne, and Roy, and the ridiculous things that so my called friends let me walk about in public with taking too much space in my trunk! So I left him there with his mouth as wide as his eyes -even then he managed to look rather gorgeous- and clambered up the stairs to ask Miss Anne if she was 'at home' to visitors, only to witness the definitive exhibition of utter muddle-headedness. When I think of how she laughed at _me_.

"Tell him I'm not here! No, tell him I'll be down in a moment! No, Phil, ask if he could call back in an hour. No, I don't want to see him. No, don't tell him that! Oh why is he here, hasn't he a train to catch? I imagine this has something to do with Christine-"

"Now that you mention it, honey," I said, "he did ask if we heard talk at the Reception-"

"He's come to tell me he's engaged. Of course he has. So thoughtful, so honourable, so utterly Gilbert Blythe!"

On she went. I was about to call a doctor. I already suspected she was out of her senses for refusing Roy, but after seeing that performance I positively knew she was. I don't even think she'd stopped babbling when I left the room, and just to top off a spectacularly horrid evening, after going to the bother of trudging down those stairs again I discovered Gil had gone off without so much as a goodbye!

**… … …**

_**April 24th, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue**_

**The Ochre Notebook**

Poor old Anne. She walks about the house as though a coat hanger was stuck in her blouse. And _still_ refuses to be comforted. Whenever we hold out our arms to her it's as though we offered her last season's hat -of which I have several.

"Don't, please don't," she says to us, "it hurts to be held, hurts as much as if I was bruised all over."

How I'd love to give her a kick, then she'd remember what a real bruise felt like. It never seems to occur to her how much it hurts _us_ to see her look so blue. We have two tiny days left to us, we girls of Patty's Place, and Anne is like a cold shower on a wedding breakfast. Ugh, I never cared a straw for the weather before, but now I want to know how it is that in 1887 _no one_ can tell me with any certainty if it will rain on my wedding day!

Anne hasn't even told me if she wants her maid of honour gown to be made up in lemon or lilac. And I can't ask her because she'll only think of Roy again. Well, he can't be that upset. I saw his sister, Dorothy, at Backshalls this morning and Roy is still planning his tour of Italy. He is hardly incapacitated with grief, whereas Anne hasn't left the house at all. My opinion of her at this moment is lower than cats.

I couldn't help myself, I invited Dorothy to Patty's Place for tea this afternoon. I know very well what Anne will say, which is why I won't tell her. In fact I'll be sure to have us girls building up the bonfire when Dorothy is due. That pile is getting to be six foot high! We are going to spend our last evening together sitting round a crackling blaze, feeding our faces with sugar and stodge and getting dangerously merry. What a pity I never managed to get Gil inside, he could have shifted those depressing chairs of Prissy and Stella's out to the orchard-

Which reminds me I _must_ remember to write to that mannie. I have a terrible suspicion when I saw him last night that I might not have made it exactly clear that Roy's proposal was _refused_.

Ugh, I am still in shock at having to write those words!

**… … …**

_**25th April, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue**_

**The Ochre Notebook**

So this is goodbye! Goodbye Ochre Notebook!

Stella is insisting we all take something to the bonfire that we want to let go of forever. Prissy is finally getting rid of those letters from the Grafton farmer -which is a boon for me because I need an extra hatbox. Stella is burning letters too. The ones she wrote to that ghost from Riverhead. As for Anne, she isn't quite ready or willing to let go of Roy's letters, though not for sentimental reasons. After Dorothy's visit something of the old Anne -or at least one of the old Annes- returned, and she said she would hold onto Mr Gardner's correspondence for a while in case he wanted them for his _memoirs_. Little wretch! Her vast array of mementos however, the sweet little hearts and scented cards, dried flowers and little poems are off to feed the fire. She loaded them into the old knotted crate that Rusty refused to die in, and then made such a ruckus I thought she was about to insist on keeping that too.

"Stop!" she screeched, "Not that one!" And ran over to Priss to retrieve a card with stars upon it.

"What's so special about that?" we asked her.

"To remind me of my room, of course. My little blue room with its little starry ceiling."

We all looked at each other wondering who would be the first to speak. Anne has been terribly prickly of late and none of us much relished being glared at. But even by her dreamy standards this sounded rather worrying.

"Anne, dearie," Jimsie ventured -good old Jimsie, how I'll miss that duck, "there aren't any stars on your ceiling."

_Then_ we got that green eyed glare. Though I wonder if Anne didn't pity us poor unimaginative clods even more than we pitied for her! No one was sorry for _me_, however.

"A single notebook!" Stella sniffed. "Is that really all you've got?"

"Well excuse me if I'm not in the habit of writing to dead people," I replied. "It must be an Island tradition."

"Anyone waiting on a letter from you would be dead from the shock of receiving it!" Anne teased.

"You have at least a dozen of these books," Priss said -and Priss would know, my belongings have been choking up her room for a year. "Why is this the only one to go?"

"Because you won't let me burn my hideous hat!" I said.

I didn't tell them the real reason, that I could hardly be expected to give up my Ochre-ish self forever. Well, I'm only becoming a minister's wife. I'm not becoming a saint!

**… … …**

_**30th June, 1887 ~Green Gables, Avonlea  
**_

Dear Diary,

It appears I have taken to sitting in graveyards. Perhaps because it's the one place left in all the world where people never change. How strange to think I met the marvel that was Miss Gordon in such a place ~and what a Phil-o-the-wisp she was then! So dazzlingly clever, divinely beautiful ~if not angelically good.

And now? Well Diary, _now_ she is Mrs Blake. And her husband is an angel. The two of them just _fit_ together. Not in that cloying way, like a spout to a kettle, so that one without the other makes them both quite useless. They are _so_ much more than that, like the branches of a tree! Wonderful enough in their own right, but _together_, able to build and to bear _so_ much more. Their wedding was a joy to me, but what I loved most of all was seeing how dearly Phil loves her Reverend Jo. I thought it was the bridegroom who was supposed to be sick with nerves awaiting his bride's arrival. Instead Phil had me peek up the aisle twice and then run back to tell her if Jo was still there!

'I've always been the worst sort of witch,' she said, looking the very opposite in her filmy white veil, 'and it got me adored all my life. But being adored isn't half so wonderful as being understood. Jo got me straight away. And today... Oh honey, today I _finally_ get him.'

'You mean you _belong_ to each other?' I laughed, hoping she would finally see that Roy and I really didn't.

'I _do_ admit you're not half as glum as you usually are when you turn down a thoroughly sensible proposal,' and she twitted me on the nose with her cake fork. 'Now I must make nice with Mother's side. The bell at the Patterson St Chapel wants replacing and the Byrnes will agree to anything today. And you must also do a favour for your dear little Phil. When you kiss me goodbye remind me I've an important letter still to write.'

I never did kiss her goodbye. I was wandering among the headstones of St Columba's when Phil and Jo drove away to the 'land of Evangeline'. That evening I found myself at another, kneeling on the grassy plot where my mother and father lie. It was Mrs Gordon's lady's maid, Cora, who drove me there. Out of all one hundred and eighty guests at the banquet hers was the only company I sought. I revealed to her a quiet wish to slip away to the cemetery and she surprised me by saying she'd been wanting to do the same.

A little miracle occurred in that overgrown, forgotten spot, for there on the Shirley's pale headstone was a posy of mayflowers. 'Miss Philippa~ Mrs Blake rather, she has one of us come here every week with some bit of cheer for your folks,' Cora said, as she lay Phil's bridal bouquet on the grave of a young ship's carpenter.

The moment I saw those creamy white stars I knew they were meant for me, and to leave that place without them would be to leave without my heart. I asked for a stem to replace them with, a pretty sprig of rosemary, then I left Cora and the carriage and began to walk the streets of a hometown that was never my home. Now I'm sitting in a graveyard again, warming my back against Matthew's stone. The leaves of his rose flutter against my neck, it feels as though someone is touching me, or trying to get my attention.

Perhaps that someone is making their way here now on beams of light from behind the clouds. A little angel wending her way ~or his~ to a neat, white cottage with a two sturdy pines at the gate, and two sturdy souls inside who have yearned all these months to welcome this beloved child.

Oh dearest God above, I know I've thrown prayers up to you every minute of this afternoon, but please, _please_ I ask you again to keep Diana safe.

Keep them _both_ safe~

**Later...**

Diary, Sarah Blythe was just here. Upon hearing the Wright baby is about to make an appearance she decided to visit her own mother on the way back from the Gillis'. I attempted to withdraw but she waved away the awkwardness, saying she would never want for Matthew to be deprived of my company on her account.

'I imagine he'll have missed you dearly when you were away.'

Mrs Blythe wasn't only talking of Matthew. The way she said _dearly_ I knew she was thinking of her son, who left for Glen St Mary the day I arrived back home. She set down a spray of wildflowers that sang of an Avonlea roadside and began fussing with the moss on her mother's stone.

'You never met her, did you Anne? Such a woman she was. Strong, determined, with real a sense of mischief. She could always find something to laugh over, though she had her share of sorrows. I'll never forget the advice she gave me the day I was set to marry~'

That last word hung in the air between us and there was no way for us to just wave it away. She rocked to her feet and dusted off her skirts. 'There I am interrupting when I see you're writing. I hear tell there's a book in the works, I'll leave you be.'

I wanted to run after her. I wanted to catch her in my arms and say, Mrs Blythe, it's my fault that Gilbert never comes home anymore.

I don't know how I know this, yet I know it all the same. But as soon as the words were formed in my mouth I forced myself to swallow them down. Because it's not my fault, how could it be? He let go of me a long time ago. So why I can't let go of him?

Do you know what I miss? The comfortable grudge I used to have. Oh, that I had it back, to wrap around me, to nuzzle against it, and take big hateful sniffs! I try to summon that outraged feeling. Instead I just feel blue. The deepest, darkest midnight blue with not a star to be seen.

Because there were no stars, Anne Shirley. They were only cracks in the ceiling.

**… … …**

**Tune in next time as I slowly squeeze the life out of Gilbert Blythe. Yeah, that'll be a fun read...  
**

**Thank you once more for reading, and all your delicious comments and reviews, especially to AlinyaAlethia for the 'matching pairs.' You are the Rose to my Ochre :o)**

**Oh, and fifty bonus points to whoever remembers the advice Mrs Blythe's mother gave Mrs Blythe!**


	9. Chapter XXXIX

**Thank you for your beautiful reviews, I will reply to you all personally but to show my thanks here's the next chapter in double quick time.  
**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. ~everything is hers, only this idea is mine**

**... ... ... **

**CHAPTER XXXIX**

**June 8th 1887**

**Tall Trees, Glen St Mary**

_Dear Sarah,_

_You'll be wanting to know about Gil before anything else I expect. What a good lad he is, though he will keep doing. He seems to live on fresh air and nothing else. His appetite has yet to improve, but as we say round here, a good sea breeze fills a body like good bread. I'll have to tie him to the table to get him to sit down and write to you. When I see him that is -he's always off somewhere, isn't he? Or has his nose in some fusty old text. My Dr Dave has had to ban Gil from the library, he's liable to read until three in the morning otherwise. 'Aunty Pearl', he says, 'I need more kerosene for my lamp'. _

_We put those books under lock and key, but he won't be bested. If we keep him from studying it only makes him more determined to learn by other means. Don't I wish you could have seen our spaniel on Tuesday, covered in bandages made from calico remnants! Or was that the day he made up onion poultices? Sarah, the stink! He got such a headache. Well, that's Glen onions for you.  
_

_We're still wanting to get some meat on his bones, so my Dr Dave wants Gil as a sort of delivery boy -says good long walks to the shore and back are 'just what the doctor ordered'. There's four families at Harbour Mouth needing visits twice or thrice a week. But Gil is under strict instructions to leave all their fresh dressings and whatnot on the doorstep and be on his way. He's not a doctor yet! Though I must say, Sarah dear, he will make such a good one._

_Now, that Lowbridge doctor on the other hand..._

**… … …  
**

**June 19th 1887**

**Tall Trees, Glen St Mary**

_Dear Sarah,_

_Let me reassure you that your boy is fine. Those headaches he's been getting finally stopped only hours after I posted my letter to you. As soon as I got home there was Gil on the front porch dissecting a cone flower -or as he called it, an echinacea. I always found them ugly myself, though they do a power of good, and certainly had some effect on the boy. That glinty look the Glen girls go mad for has all but returned, I'd say._

_I had half a mind to go back to the post office and ask for that first letter back. I would have too if Mrs Saul (who is an Elliot, but there's no use calling her that when half the Glen are Elliots!) wasn't working there today. If I saw my letter in her fat little hand that woman would still refuse to return it. 'Rules is rules', she loves to say -no doubt they'll carve it on her tombstone! So forgive me if I worried you, dear, he is a little tired but very much recovered._

_My herb garden, however, I believe Gil would lop the heads from every bush if I let him. What did you say it was you planted alongside your tomatoes..._

_**… … …**_

**June 30th, 1887**

**Tall Trees, Glen St Mary**

_Dear John,_

_I have some concerns about Gil, and think it best he returns to Avonlea. I believe he mentioned he's had some head pain. We did think it improving but it now comes with increasing frequency, and there are other symptoms too which are giving me pause. No need to worry your wife with this, John, but I should mention I have just now diagnosed two Harbour Mouth lads with typhoid fever. That is not to say your boy has anything of the sort, only that I wish him away from the Glen when he is already unwell._

_You can expect him on the first train to Bright River on Monday morning. Don't be alarmed to see him accompanied by Miss Ada Corke, who can apprise you of Gil's condition. If he should improve she is to return to us at the end of the week. If not, John my boy, Ada is a trained nurse and at your disposal for as long as you have need of her._

_Keep me informed as to any developments and give my best to Sarah,_

_David Blythe  
_

**… … …**

**July 4th 1887**

**Allwinds, Avonlea  
**

_Dear Uncle Dave,_

_Gil is arrived and Miss Corke is settled in the spare room. He wasn't good I have to say, we had to lay him down in the back of the wagon he was that weak from the journey. He's got terrible chills, but it's the headaches seem the worst. Blinding fierce and go on for hours. He ain't complaining though I know it pains him, Sarah bought him a new book and he hasn't even opened it._

_Tell me now if you've had any others come down with the fever, are you sure you can spare your nurse? There's already trouble brewing in this quarter. Miss Corke is one for fresh air and ventilation and Sarah wants to keep Gil warm. The windows are all open for now, but maybe write to Sarah yourself as to Gil's particular care. She's like a wounded bear with a cub right now, so any instructions are best coming from you._

_Love to Aunty Pearl,_

_John_

**… … …**

**July 10th 1887 **

**Allwinds, Avonlea  
**

_Dear Dr Blythe,_

_Regarding your nephew, enteric phenomena are now confirmed. There is severe abdominal tenderness with attendant gurgling sound to the right side, and all subsequent symptoms suggestive of typhoid excepting rose coloured spots to the abdomen. He has been confined to bed and a bedpan (not always willingly) in order to prevent infection from spreading to the rest of the household. Fortunately, Mrs Blythe maintains scrupulous hygiene and has good supplies of fresh linen and disinfecting agents to keep the patient clean and comfortable. Unfortunately, she refuses to heed my order to avoid all contact with her son, and has five (possibly six) cats.  
_

_I have her making up solutions and tinctures to ease his discomfort, and would like to know of a suitable replacement for gelesium. The patient currently has a dark red colour to his face, and a large, soft pulse, which I am treating with arnica. However, Mrs Blythe informs me he has shown signs of delirium in the early hours of last night and I know that gelesium given with aconite provides the best results._

_Temperature settles at 102 (up to 104 in the evening). As it reaches the latter with more frequency I will discontinue fever diet and administer water and diluted liquids only -starting with 60 ounces every 24 hours. Nosebleeds have ceased. But as fever heightens sores to mouth and tongue are worsening, though a white oak solution of Dr Spencer's is meeting with success. I have included the making of it below._

_Shall send this now, Mr Blythe informs me if I manage to get a letter away with the first post you will have received it by tomorrow afternoon. That being so I would appreciate a response by Friday._

_Respectfully, A. Corke_

**… … …**

**July 16th 1887 **

**Tall Trees, Glen St Mary**

_Dear Sarah,_

_Allow me to be plain, my dear. No one doubts your care but Ada Corke has invaluable experience with this particular fever which is why I sent her to Allwinds. I ask you to heed her advice, particularly the sponge baths. No doubt you and Dr Spencer have good reason to prefer wet sheet packs, but I must insist that the sponge baths be allowed to continue._

_I know there is no point my asking you again to keep contact with Gil to a minimum. That being so you may administer the baths yourself, though please be sure to add 30 grains of ammonia (no rubbing alcohol) to one pint of water, and begin with the head, torso and limbs in that order. You must ensure each part of his body is thoroughly dried before proceeding to the next, you want to cool his fever, not chill him._

_I am frustrated to hear that hypocymus is having no effect on his temperature and give you leave to follow Dr Spencer's suggestion._

_My best to you, dear, and to John. There is no denying your boy is having the worst of it, but I believe he can pull through. Pearl sends her love and says to tell you she writes directly._

_Yours, David Blythe  
_

**… … …**

**July 19th 1887**

**Allwinds, Avonlea  
**

_Dear Pearl,_

_John has sent me to bed but how can I sleep? Nothing is working. Every day his fever gets higher. I went to scold Ada for leaving a dry cloth on Gilbert's head instead of a cool, wet one and she said, it was a cool and wet one not a minute before._

_Is there really nothing you can think of that might take the fever down? Do you know of any unorthodox treatments? What about on the mainland, have they access to cures that we don't? I can't be asking these experts, they just shoo me away. But you understand that I have to do something. It's killing him, Pearl, and all I can do is boil sheets and watch him be taken from me.  
_

_I'm in such knots. I keep thinking if we hadn't insisted Gilbert try to win that scholarship he would still be well. He worked so hard, I could have wept when I saw how pale and thin he'd got when we went attended Convocation. Nothing like the big brown boy I'd grown from a tiny babe. Remember what a time I had after his birth, how I always teased him never to put me through that again? Pearl, this is nothing to those days. _

_He's in such pain. When he's awake he chews on his lip to keep from crying out -and when he sleeps. I used to wish he would sleep but now it scares me. It's like there's some terrible wound inside him. The things he is saying. One friend of his in particular seems very much in his thoughts. John and I are torn over whether we should fetch her, hoping perhaps her presence may calm him some. But that nurse is adamant that no one else is to be admitted._

_Pearl, I am terrified I shall never survive it if he dies. I'm beginning to hate the sun for daring to shine. I beg you please send me something, some hope that I can cling to._

_Yours, truly_

_Sarah_

**… … …**

**July 21th 1887  
**

** Allwinds, Avonlea  
**

_Dear Uncle Dave,_

_I'm sure it'll come as no surprise when I ask if you know a good sleeping draft for Sarah. Ada's attempted one or two different teas but that wife of mine won't touch them. I don't need sleep, she says, I need for our boy to get well._

_We just discovered her standing on Gil's bed trying to work some brass tacks out from the ceiling. Not sure how to account for them being there in the first place, but Sarah believes Gil is upset to look at them. He is muttering all sorts of gibberish. It's a terrible thing to witness, though not without surprises. _

_Late last evening Ada and I were trying to recall the name of that herb used to dull sharp, cutting sensations. We're all a little worn down, as I'm sure are you. Pearl made mention there's been four new cases at Harbour Mouth, and I want to thank you again for sparing Ada like you did. Well, neither of us could think of the name of that confounded plant. We stood there like stunned fish, thinking Gil insensible, when just like that he shouts out, bryonia! And bless me if he wasn't right!_

_I have this sense that even now our boy is determined to fight his way out. I keep on telling him all the things he has to live for. I don't know if he hears me, but it helps to say it out loud.  
_

_Wishing I had better news, but I hold out hope. Blythes don't go down easy, we never did and don't plan to now._

_John_

**… … …**

**July 23rd 1887 **

**Allwinds, Avonlea  
**

_Dear Pearl,_

_The next time I write it will be to tell you that the fever has broken or it's killed him.  
_

_There's a storm blowing up tonight. Last week I would have stood right in it and let out such a scream. But now I've got to that place where I would rather bury my son than have him suffer one more minute. I'm not frightened anymore, not even sad. Just numb. My only hope if Gilbert dies is that I stay that way._

_He called out tonight. I ran to his room and saw he had flung himself out of his bed, when he hasn't lifted his head from his pillow for nigh on a week. He's so thin, like a child in my arms. I suppose I should have called on Ada or John, but holding him like that made me think of him as my baby again and I couldn't let him go. I felt him shake against my shoulder, I thought he was convulsing. But Pearl, he was crying. His body so parched now he can no longer make tears._

_I sought to calm him as best I could, though it flayed me to the bone to see him that way. And to hear him. Pearl, there is nothing so unendurable as to hear your child plead with you-_

_I want to live. Please, please let me live.  
_

**… … …**

**July 23rd ~Green Gables**

Gilbert

Please, you have to live.

I love you and you have to live.

**… … …**


	10. Chapter XL

**Remember when you read the first Redmond Diary and you laughed? (Well I laughed) I miss the laughter and I love the joy that exists between these two. So here is some gushing, mischievous fun. There are no explanations, not yet. Just spontaneous and well deserved bliss! :o)**

**Chapter XL (for extra love!)**

**_August 22nd, Green Gables ~with my heart in my mouth, and on my sleeve and racing madly, madly, madly!_**

I love him.

I _love_ Gilbert Blythe.

I roll his name around on my tongue, I suck it like that broken heart necklace. But this isn't musky and sweet like a piece of candy, this has bite and juice and it runs down my chin and I lick up every drip.

Gilbert Blythe!

He tastes of apple. Not only the fruit, the entire tree. The wood and the leaves and the blossom, petally soft like fingertips when they touch their beloved for the very first time.

I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him.

I never get tired of saying it, thinking it, spelling it out in the air.

_I love Gilbert Blythe._

There isn't a why, there isn't a when, there's only a _how_. And it's an overwhelming, overflowing how that loves every part of him. I love his strength and his laugh and his will and his eyes, and the eyelashes on those eyes. His eyebrows too, like inky brushstrokes that tell me when he's teasing and when he really means it. His nose. I never considered how perfect it was, I suppose because I am always thinking about what lies beneath, which is his even perfecter mouth. His sweet, full, kissable mouth, filled with bright teeth and brighter words that go right to the heart of me. Every single word, every single time.

Say toothbrush, Gilbert Blythe, and I promise you I will blush so red you won't know where my face stops and my hair begins. Say metaphysical poetics, say parabolic anomaly. Say marry me, marry me, marry me, marry me!

And today he comes! Today after weeks of waiting and dreaming and hoping I shall finally see my love.

I'd like to think I'll have the presence of mind to say, 'Don't you dare nearly die on me ever again!' But I know what I'll really do is fling away whatever posy he has in his hands and leap into his arms.

How long has it been since I've felt them around me? And there was nothing else like it. He held me as though he thought I'd float away, like I was a cloud. Never grasping or greedy, with a confident touch which said, I'll let you go, but only when you tell me to. Till then my arms stay right where they are.

He can hold me as close as he wants to now. I want to run into him so that he staggers back and can do nothing but grab at my waist. How I've missed the feel of his hands upon me, missed the way he was able to guide me around the room so that I forgot we were dancing. The way his fingers dipped into the small of my back, and his thumb settled lightly on my ribs. I could feel the heat of his skin through my dress as though there was no dress. And felt him looking at me as though there was no me, just a great big beating heart, which beat faster and faster till all I could do was say stop!

But I won't say it now. I won't _ever_ say it now. No more no. No more wait. No more don't. Only yes! More! Again! And _again_ and_ again_ and _again_. I'll never stop saying it, I'll never stop loving him, I'll never~

Oh! He's here! Mrs Blythe said to expect him at three. I haven't even changed my dress yet. No matter, he's here! He's here!

**Later...**

He's gone. He was here for fifteen minutes and now he's gone. There was no rushing down the stairs and into his arms, there were no charged looks and frantic words, there wasn't even a posy. By the time I'd tidied up my hair he was already seated on the porch between Marilla and Rachel with a _blanket_ over his knees! His mother had gone on to the Barry's saying she'd be back in fifteen minutes. And she was. Fifteen minutes to the second. Then she asked if he needed help getting into the buggy, gave the reins a tug and drove away.

It was the longest and shortest fifteen minutes of my life. We said a total of six things to each other. _Six_. And none of them needing the sudden but deliberate absence of Marilla or Rachel. In fact by sentence number three I began to wish they would come back so that I could run upstairs and hide.

'Hello you,' I said. (Hello _you_? Have I ever said such a thing in my life?)

'Anne,' he said. (Anne? _Anne? _I already know my name, Gilbert Blythe. Perhaps he wanted to make a point of showing he'd remembered mine, because he thought I'd forgotten his_._)

'You're looking well,' was my next feeble remark. Honestly, how many people must have said _that_ to him?

'Like a scarecrow is how I look. But it's better than being six foot in the ground.'

He made a small laugh, and it would have been the perfect time for me to say, _Don't you ever die!_ But all I could think was if I'd run at him like I'd meant to I could have killed him all over again.

Not once in all the days since I heard he would live did I consider _why_ it was he nearly died. All I could think was that we had another chance, and what I would do with that chance. How I would make up for all the lost time and misunderstandings, and we could go back to how it used to be. But I saw that rug, saw his pale hands resting on that rug, saw a shirt that seemed a size too big, and a such a curly mop of overgrown hair that the next thing I knew I was blurting out (I can barely write this down without cringing)

'Is that MacLeod tartan?' And I sat down beside him, picked up the corner closest to my knee and began teasing out the soft wool fringe!

We sat like that for _ten_ minutes and if another word was said then it was so dull and commonplace as to be utterly forgettable. The poor rug was in danger of being completely unravelled, and was only saved by the appearance of Mrs Blythe, and those two other good women ~who I know very well had been busying themselves right by the front door. They went to take the rug from him but he clung to it, stubbornly, and all I could say as he walked down the porch steps was~

'It was good to see you.'

But it wasn't good. It was the most painful, drawn out, awkward, shocking and disappointing miracle of my life. And I've already had quite a number of those so that _is_ saying something.

**… … …**

_**August 22nd, Allwinds**_

Mother warned me. Don't go, she said, it's too early, wait a bit. But would I listen? Nope. Instead I turned up on Anne's doorstep with all the charisma and style of Charlie Sloane's grandfather -and the dead one at that.

What a heedless, hapless fool. I got that letter from Phil and all I could think of was getting to Anne. Every spoonful of cod liver oil and every bowl of pap getting me closer to the day I could see her again. I pictured it hourly. She'd be wearing that dress she knows that I love and her hair would be down round her shoulders, and she'd say, Gil there's something I need to tell you. And I'd say, Sweetheart I already know.

I can recite that part of the letter by heart. No doubt Mother could too, I made her repeat it that many times.

_I always wondered how you Island types achieved as much as you did._ _But now I see how it's done. If there's something you want you must make it yourself. And if you fail you either find the will to try again or learn to live without it. There's nowhere on that rock for you to buy it. No one to simply give it to you. That was why Anne refused Roy -didn't you know that, Gilbert Blythe? Well, now you do. She doesn't want someone who can shower her with 'diamond starbursts and marble halls' anymore than I do. She wants to make her own life, with dreams that I think look very much like yours. So what do you say, Island boy, have you got in you to try again?_

Did I have it in me? At the time it was all I had left. I truly believed it was enough and could have cursed Mother for insisting I kept the visit brief, that a blanket be kept about me at all times or there would be no visit at all. I was prepared to say yes to anything. What I wasn't prepared for was how I would feel when I saw Anne again. All sorts of alarming things sprang from my mouth. And not only my mouth. I had almost forgotten how to tell time. Then Anne puts her hands on my blanket and all I can think is thank the Lord that's there, because this tick tock beats through me so powerfully I was reluctant to open my mouth in case she heard it.

As reassuring as it is to know that's all in working order, I could have stood to have discovered it on some other day. Or at some other hour, or on someone else's porch. But it had to be Anne's. It's always been Anne. I know it was a mistake to see her so soon, but all I want to do now is to make that mistake again.

**… … …**

**_September 3rd, Green Gables ~and going going gone out of my mind_  
**

He lent me his new book. He walked me to the graveyard. He returned a quilt pattern his mother had borrowed from Rachel. He came to help Davy with some secret project, and Marilla with the gate to the cow shed. We've talked of the comparative merits of Lawsons peppermints versus Blairs, and the works of Emerson and Thoreau. It's all been perfectly lovely and perfectly friendly and perfectly how it always was. There was only one awkward moment. When I asked him if he'd read any Whitman, and he looked at me askance and said, 'Have _you_?'

Have I? I am living inside a Whitman poem. I _am_ the Body Electric!

Today we went out for apples. Not just apples. _The_ apples. _Those_ apples. I didn't think he could manage to walk that far. If I had known, if I'd had an inking where he was taking me I would have worn more than my calico overall and my hair in two braids. He arrived in a vest of dull midnight silk and as I admired it I realised how quickly his body had begun to fill out. How the shirt sleeves that once hung from his shoulders now strained at the seams as he reached for the tip most branch. I didn't know where to put my eyes when he handed me an apple, even his fingernails took on a forbidden quality. It only got worse when we lay underneath the tree. Gilbert said he wanted to look up at the clouds but I knew he was tiring. Soon he had drifted off to sleep, his breath stirring the blades of grass round his face, and I couldn't stop _staring_. Drinking him in as though I had been on my knees with a raging thirst and he was a fresh pool of clear, cold water.

He was beautiful. It was an unexpected beauty because his eyes were closed and I always thought his eyes the most irresistible thing about him. Instead it was just how people who lose their sight or their hearing often say, that as one sense goes the others get stronger. His ears, his mouth, and his hands that cradled his newly cut hair hair, appeared so beautifully made and expressive that all I wanted to do was run my lips all over him. It's a terrible, wonderful agony to lie there next to the one you love, never knowing if they love you back. Your mouth so brimful with kisses you feel if you don't let them out they will escape of their own accord.

So I stopped looking at his sleeping face and turned up to the sky but there was nothing there to hold my attention compared to the man who lay beside me. My eyes began tracing a line down his body, to his hip. I could see his shirt tail had come out and saw glimpse of smooth bare skin, about the size of the palm of my hand ~I had to stop myself bringing my hand to that skin just to be sure. To see his body like that made me overly conscious of my own. A woman's form is so different, flaring out like the base of a tree as it grasps at the earth. Whereas a man's starts straight and narrow and then branches out to the sky. But it doesn't do to be looking at Gilbert and thinking of trees. At least not until he asks me~

Why won't he ask me? Surely he can hear it inside me, every part of me beating hard with the words, ask me, ask me, ask me. Yet he doesn't. Or he won't. I don't yet know which one is the truth. What I do know is that I'm starting to see every little thing we do together as a great big thing. I can't help but gather all his gestures and words to me like armfuls of flowers, hoping each day to make something meaningful from this riotous mess I've made. I think how can you lie there next to me, Gilbert Blythe, and not know what it means? And then I remember all the times I sprawled out next to him when marriage was the last thing on my mind. Now it's the first, and I want him so dearly that there isn't room enough inside me to eat or even to dream. There's just him.

How did it happen, that we were best enemies and then best friends and then we were nothing, and now we are~

I think I know what we are. I know without doubt what we could be, and I would to tell him if only he would ask. I'm not ready to believe that the reason he hasn't is because he asked somebody else.

**… … …**

_**September 3rd, Allwinds**_

She loves me.

It's true. It's real. I haven't spent half my life hoping I might see it in her eyes not to recognise it now.

Anne Shirley loves me.

I never believed those letters could be arranged to make those words. Some things are just impossible. Some things are always out of reach. But today I knew if I'd reached for her she would have never let me go.

So why didn't I? Even now I'm not sure. In that moment under the tree I was laid so low with the weight of all her want I couldn't move. I never wanted to. What I wanted was to feel it pour all over me, to be rained on and drowned in her fierce and unrelenting love.

She loves me.

It's like walking out into unknown land. As I rediscover the Island I am rediscovering Anne, and every day we venture out a little further. It reminds me how I tried to teach her how to sail on open water all those years ago. A gale blew up from the north and she stood on the shore in her oilskin and rubbers insisting -as only Anne can insist- that we go out in it. And I told her, If I let you go out in that you'll learn to be afraid, you'll learn not to trust yourself.

Like all good advice I never applied it to myself. Anne came into my life like a storm, and instead of heeding her warnings I just jumped right in, and she spat me out just like she said she would. So maybe now I want to test the waters. Maybe I'm afraid this is all a mirage. Or maybe I'm just gathering my strength so I know I can take all she can give. And she can give a lot. I feel her soak into my bones, there's nothing like the spirit and the will of that woman. There's nothing and no one like Anne.

Anne loves _me. _She loves me. I know it. And I know something else. I never stopped loving her.

**… … …**

**The 'tick-tock' is a reference to chapter V in RD1, the 'thinking about Gilbert and trees' is a reference to Chapter IX in RD3, and the sailing story was first mentioned in RD1 Chapter IV  
**

**OK, beautifuls, 100 000+ words later we've almost made it to the end... I'm a little too flahoops* right now to say more except I hope to see you there :o)**

***flahoops means just what you think it means**


	11. Chapter XLI

**Hi, I heard that some story was finishing up today? You know anything about it?**

**I just wanted to say as someone who includes periods, masturbation, girl crushes, hysterical paroxysm and hangovers in their Anne stories (you mean you missed them? Then you need a re read!) portraying reality really matters to me. If I was Anne there's no way I could have written what she has written. But I made her anyway, because we all needed to know exactly what happened the night Gilbert proposed again. If it feels unrealistic I'm sorry, it was only because I wanted you to have every detail.**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. ~everything is hers, only this idea is mine**

_**... ... ... **_

_**CHAPTER XLI**_

_**4th September, 1887**_

_**Green Gables, Avonlea P.E.I.**_

_Another P.S. (and it really is the last one I promise)_

_Phil there is nothing to do but admit to you now that the reason I have taken so long to reply is not to teach you a lesson but because I have been holding out hope ~a vain, miserable hope~ that I might have something, no not something, the very best thing to relate to you. But I can no longer lie to myself. _

_You tell me Gilbert has known since July that Roy and I are no more. Then let me tell you I have spent nearly every day of the last two weeks in his company and he has never once mentioned it. Meanwhile all Avonlea is talking of the beautiful Miss Stuart. Everyone but Gilbert. If he loves her, Phil, he never says so. And if she loves him then why did she not come to him when he was ill? I would have been by his side in a second, and every second after that~ _

_But I won't continue. For one it's shameless, and two, I know very well you're laughing at me. _

_I suppose one day I shall laugh. Isn't that what I have to look forward to now, a life of dedication, good works and memories bittersweet? Only now there seems a shortage of sweet things. Now I am about to tuck in my ends and attend yet another wedding. Miss Alice Penhallow is about to become Mrs Simon Drew. And Miss Anne Shirley has been spending the afternoon trying to make my green chiffon look a little less like it did when I wore it to her engagement party. I may have to wear gloves. I've scored my palms with my fingernails that many times, clenching my fists as I'm told yet again 'that it's the over particular ones who get left behind'. _

_Knowing I might have spent the afternoon with Gilbert makes it all the more unbearable. He was here not half an hour ago wanting to know if I cared for an 'old time ramble through September woods and over the hills where spices grow' ~yes, Phil, Gilbert can be every bit as poetical as I can when he means to be. Though when I told him I couldn't join him he looked no more bothered than if he'd asked Dora._

_In that case," he said, blithely, 'I shall hie me home to do something now that I should otherwise do tomorrow.' _

_Oh, Phil, I don't see how I will ever laugh about this. I feel as if I will never laugh again. Afraid the joy that burnt so brightly when I heard he would live was merely the tail of a comet, lightening the sky for one glorious moment before finally fading away._

**… … …**

_**4th September, 1887  
**_

_**Allwinds, Avonlea, P.E.I.**_

_Dear Professor Keaton,_

_I am writing to thank you for your generous offer and to inform you I must decline. I appreciate the honour, but cannot with good heart devote my life to medicine at Halifax knowing I could better serve those on the Island. I realise the opportunity I am giving up. I also know what I one day hope to gain._

_I wish you well in all your endeavours._

_Respectfully, Gilbert Blythe_

**… … …**

_**4th September, Green Gables**_

Dear Diary,

The wedding was lovely, Alice was lovelier and I am in the dust. I look at the letter I wrote to Phil and detest every word of it. But I shall send it, not least because I know I deserve the mocking reply she will no doubt send me.

The very best thing has already happened. Gilbert lives. Nothing else matters, and I am resolved to be the very best Anne I can be without him.

**… … …**

_**5th September, Allwinds**_

It seems I am destined to be always at war with clocks. Has an hour ever passed so slowly? I was filled with certainty at four o'clock -why didn't we arrange to meet then? Then it was only a matter of striding up to her and saying, Would you, Miss Shirley? Now I am creaking with doubts. I read over the last entry in my journal and I think to myself, Blythe, you are clearly still delirious. Anne love you? Anne say yes to you? What are you thinking!

It's a far more comfortable feeling being resolved to give her up, I know then nothing could hurt me again. And it still might be I have to let her go. But I could never let go of the certainty that the life I fought for would be half lived if I never dared do what I am about to do right now.

**… … …**

_**5th September, Green Gables**_

He

We

I

_**Later...**_

It's too much, it's too, too much! For him to live and for us to regain our friendship was already more than I knew what to do with. But to love me. _Still._ Truly. All these years. I can't take it in. I am so burstingly full of love for him there's no room for anything else.

It can't be contained on this page, it can't be contained in this house. I have to get outside, I don't care if it's ten o'clock, I don't care if Marilla and Rachel lecture me for a week. All I want to be now is wherever he is.

_**Later...**_

How is it one in the morning! I feel I shall always be at war with clocks. Oh, that I could go back and live this night all over again. Instead let me write it out now, there's no use in trying to sleep. I wonder what Gilbert is he doing, is he sleeping the sleep of angels? Is he thinking of me? I feel as though he is. Somehow I know what lives in his heart, just as he knows what lives inside me.

I must have sat on the porch steps for an hour though I knew he wasn't due until five. It was the fairest, most golden of evenings, and as he came up the drive to Green Gables his eyes looked like stars ~it was all I could do not to make wishes on them. We walked on to Hester Gray's garden in silence. We often do, there was nothing to suggest this ramble would be different to any other. Until he took my hand to help me over the stile and never let it go. I was afraid to believe it might mean something and I told myself, firmly, _Remember this, Anne Shirley, in a week you may never see him again._

The garden was a paradise, filled with a silken flush of fragrance that only the dusk can bring. It seemed to fill my mouth so that all I could speak of were flowers. But Gilbert is used to that. We began talking about our dreams and I was relieved the sky was darkening because I knew my face must be as red as the setting sun. I've had so many dreams about him there are mornings I never want to get out of bed.

For the briefest of moments I thought of saying, Do you want to know what I dream of, Gilbert Blythe? I dream of standing in front of you wearing nothing at all while you clothe me with kisses. I dream I'm bathing and look down to see it's not water about me but you. I dream of lying in my favourite tree and then you become that tree. I dream of watching for you by the gate of our home, of you running into my arms and kissing my hair and the belly that holds our baby.

All those dreams slipped through my mind like beads down a broken thread. Lost to me, but without regret when my dearest dream had already come true. He was alive and his hand was in mine and nothing else mattered. There was no bitterness, no might have beens. I only felt joy that he lived.

He began telling me about his own dreams. His voice took on that nervous, eager sound I remembered so well, and I thought this is when he tells me he is going to marry Christine. I was determined to be happy for him, preparing to steel myself, knowing once I did that steel would never leave my heart. Instead it was if a wave of happiness broke over me as I heard him describe a dream so exactly like my own. One that belonged with me. More than that, that _was_ me. It was as if that steel shard was suddenly pulled free. I couldn't speak for relief and wonder, for all the love I had for him. But he understood what I wanted to say because he knows me. He_ knows_ me.

Such a blur of words followed. I think we were both so in awe at what had just happened, having found ourselves in the midst of all that feeling we needed to take shelter in familiar things. And then, Diary, it was as if the sun came out, because~

He _kissed_ me!

I call it a kiss but only because I lack the language to define what it really was. Our bodies kissed first. He drew me to him slowly, touching my hair and then holding me around my waist. His hands felt so right there, and I moved into him with such sureness as though expecting music to start. When he gazed at my lips there was no flicker this time, I could feel a current pass right through them. And I knew what he wanted, because I know him, too.

What I didn't know was what it would be like for Gilbert ~Gilbert of the broken slate and the blue hall, the word games and the singalongs, the chummy silences and combative debates~ to _kiss_ me. I think he was curious too, the way he nuzzled his face in my hair as though remembering me all over again.

His lips grazed over my brows, then my cheek, and lingered near my mouth. I could smell peppermints on his breath and I thought, Gilbert Blythe, you knew you were going to do this all along. That's when I started shaking, really shaking. It didn't seem to matter that this was the most romantic, most longed for moment of my life. I couldn't stop this shivery smile spreading all through me ~I thought I was going to laugh.

'If you don't let me kiss you, Anne Shirley,' he murmured, 'I'll break something over your head in a minute.'

So I launched myself at him, our teeth colliding with such force I thought I tasted blood. I pulled away and tried to explain that I'd never kissed anyone before, and he got such a look in his eye.

'Don't move,' he told me, and Diary I know it's all sorts of wrong, but I almost melted into the garden bench when he said that to me.

He held my face between his hands and kissed me over and over. Blissfully slow and tender kisses, until my heart and my lips were finally able to catch up with his, and the kissing ran away from us completely. Spilling out onto ears, necks, noses, chins, temples. Everywhere his mouth went seemed to light something inside me so that when he walked me home I felt sure I must be glowing.

We decided not to tell anyone until the next day. It was nine by this time ~_four_ hours had somehow passed us by! Gilbert was to come in the morning just as early as he could, and we would tell Marilla first, then go on to Allwinds together. We said our goodbyes at the gate, I don't know how he got home but I fairly floated through the front door. Marilla was waiting up for me and as soon as I saw her I realised there would be no need for me to say anything.

It was the moment I felt I her arms around me that I began to understand what had happened. All I could do was cry. I was anxious Marilla would think me heartbroken. I tried to get the words out, to tell her how happy I was, but the feeling refused to be put into words. She simply wiped my eyes and then her own and told me I may as well hold my tongue because happiness was written all over my face.

I thought I would go to up my room and write it all down but I could barely hold my pen. And an hour later I was creeping down the stairs to see Marilla gazing at the fire with a rapturous expression I had never seen before.

'Please, Marilla,' I begged her, 'I feel I will explode if I stay inside, I just need to be close to him. I won't go to the Blythes, just down to the gate.'

'If he's anything like John I believe you'll find he's there already,' she said. And I wondered if Marilla's name had been carved somewhere on the gate posts. I gave her a quick kiss and ran from the room, out to the porch and down the drive. And he was there! Gilbert was there at the gate.

Dreaming and hoping and waiting. For me.

**… … …**

_**Allwinds, Avonlea**_

...then I see her running up the drive, running up to the gate without any sign she means to stop. Her hair is loose and she's making her way towards me with a look in her eyes I have never let myself even dream of before. I couldn't help recall the times I had stood at that spot hoping to catch a glimpse of her. To see Anne run towards me like that, so alive and filled with joy, made me realise two things. One, I was about to cry, and two I wasn't going to be able to hide it because I simply couldn't move.

All at once she was scaling the gate and jumping into my arms. I've wanted to do that for so long, she laughed. And something else besides.

Then she kisses me. Not the shy, trembling kisses we shared in the hours before. But with an urgent, open mouth that so excited and astonished me I thought I would drop her. I settled her on the top of the gate and she took her hands from around my neck, running them over my face, through my hair, and over my shoulders as if wanting to be sure I was really there. I could scarcely believe it myself. I felt I would dissolve and all I could think was, This woman is going to be my _wife_.

I'm so happy to discover you here, she says, because I realised something important that I forgot to do.

It was the most perfect night of my life, the birthday of our happiness. I couldn't think of one thing that was missing, one thing that was wanting. I had everything now, because I had Anne. She clasped my hands and brought them to her breast so I could feel the way her heart was beating through her the soft green of her dress. I knew without doubt the tears that threatened were about to spill, and she says to me,

I love you, Gilbert Blythe.

**The End**

**… … …**

**Thank you all for reading!**

**I've had the most beautiful time writing this, I swear sometimes it was like I was taking dictation. But it would be nothing if I couldn't share it with you, if I didn't know you were cheering on the characters, and cheering me on as well. I will of course reply to you all personally, because inevitably I will mess this up and miss out someone dear to me, but to my lurkers, first time reviewers, favers, followers and guests, especially Erika, Astrakelly and Guest -THANK YOU (Guest they weren't anagrams, but that is a killer idea!)  
**

**Ever loving shout outs to my ever loyal crew, especially -Alinya, Bertha, Jenn, Diana &amp; K.B. (extraordinary writers all) who I dedicated this story to way back in RD1 days. You never missed a chapter, and I'll never forget you for that.**

**Big ups to all my new Anne-girls, especially reviewer extraordinaires, VickyP16, Edkchestnut, PelirrojaBiu, Mountainrivergirl, JDSparks, RebeccatheHistorian, and to EnnaEnerge, I am going to attack your story right now.  
**

**To EllaofDale if you are still around then know this, I have that review ON MY FRIDGE!**

**To FKAJ -yours are going straight to the pool room ;o)  
**

**Now the Windy Willows Letters, I can't say for sure when I will start them, but let the voting commence. Should it just be between Anne and Gilbert OR do you want to hear from Stella, Phil et al as well? Let me know what you prefer :o)**

**#thirdbuttonrule #ham #ticktock #treelove #ochre #stella&amp;priss4ever #thirdarm #velvetcape #phoebs #anagramnerd  
**


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